


Electra

by misshoneywell



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misshoneywell/pseuds/misshoneywell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss has always been envious of the close relationship her best friend, Madge, has with her father. But after an intense situation helps bond her with Mr. Mellark, she realizes that it's not a fatherly relationship she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Pass over the red marker,” Mr. Mellark instructs, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as he stares down at the cardboard flap with a frightening level of intensity. He drops the black marker and holds out his hand expectantly.

 

“Um, no,” I say, cradling it to my chest.

 

“No?” he asks, looking up at me with surprise. “I need it. What are you working on right now?” He scoots closer and regards my side of the trifold, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Ha! As I suspected! You don’t even need it. I’m drawing platelets, and you’re...” He cocks his head as he studies my drawing. “What is that? Blood splatters?” He looks at me accusingly. “You’re doing fun stuff.”

 

I shrug. “You’re just a grunt. Sorry, Mr. Mellark.”

 

He shakes his head. “I’m going to draw a heart,” he says, tapping his chin. “Does anyone in your class actually care about platelets? Not exactly compelling shapes,” he adds with a critical eye. “Also, are you two seniors or kindergarteners? What kind of project is this for an AP class? I have half a mind to call the school.”

 

“Wah, wah, wah,” Madge says, her voice dry as she emerges from the kitchen, her bright blonde ponytail swinging behind her. She likes to say that she picked up both her humor and her hair color from her dad, though his are a degree lighter in both the former and the latter.

 

Too bad she didn’t get the artistic talent, too, which is why she refuses to do anything but the text work of the project, even though I’m almost as hopeless as she is when it comes to the creative arts. I look down at my weak blood splatters with semi-resentful exasperation.

 

She plops down between us on the floor, somehow managing to make the move look graceful as she folds her long legs beneath her. “Stop harassing my friend, Dad. And you’re here to help us, not release your inner Picasso. Don’t you get enough of that at work?”

 

“Well, how can I help you girls if Katniss won’t relinquish her death grip on the marker that I need?” he asks in an arch tone. I wrinkle my nose and wave it in the air tauntingly.

 

“Shouldn’t you have about a million red markers, Mr. Mellark?” I retort, tossing the marker at him. It hits his chest with a light thump and he clutches at the spot, making a huge wounded show it. “You’re an artist.”

 

“This is my red marker,” he says with mock irritation, the twist of his lips taking all of the sting out of his words. I smile a little as I lean over and watch him outline a perfect rendering of a human heart. Mr. Mellark is a professor at the Corcoran College of Art + Design in DC, as well as a freelance graphic designer. As someone who can barely draw a cloud, I’m always in awe of even the simplest of his doodles, let alone something of this magnitude.

 

_We’re totally going to get an A on this project_ , I say to myself. I can feel it in my bones as I continue to watch as an aorta becomes visible with his strokes. “You would do well to remember that everything in this house is mine,” he adds severely, the teasing obvious in his voice. “Even you, Maddy.”

 

“Whatever,” Madge says with a roll of her eyes, completely focused on a square of paper and the caption she is penning onto it. “You’re such a nerd, Dad.”

 

“Well, you had to get it from somewhere,” he says, looking up for a second to grin at her. I stamp down the feeling of intense jealousy as I watch the familial look pass between them, at how much they adore each other. My dad’s been dead over five years, and I’ll never have what Madge and Mr. Mellark have. My dad will never sit on the floor as he helps me with my AP Anatomy and Physiology class. He won’t make my favorite dinner every night or ask me what I want to watch on television. He won’t take me on trips into the city to see his favorite graffiti tags on a random alley wall.

 

And, while I don’t begrudge my best friend her dad or the incredible bond that they share, I do feel a sting of envy that makes me suck in a breath and look away. I berate myself and try to remember that Madge is great at sharing Mr. Mellark with me— I actually can’t remember the last time that I wasn’t invited along with them on one of their adventures.

 

_It’s not the same, though_ , I think, jumping a little when Madge’s mom appears in the doorway.

 

“Watcha doing?” Mrs. Mellark slurs loudly, her eyes bright and glassy as she comes into the living room, a drink clinking in her hand. Her blonde hair is limp and her normally perfect lipstick is smeared. “Project? I wanna help!” My eyes flit to Madge, who looks both equal parts worried and disgusted.

 

“No, thanks,” Madge says, exchanging a meaningful look with Mr. Mellark. He clears his throat and lumbers to his feet, dropping the marker and placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

 

“Dell, why don’t you go upstairs? That show is on you like, and I made-”

 

“No, Peeta!” she exclaims, jerking away from him. He closes his eyes before opening them again, and I can read the intense frustration there. I bite my lip and look away uncomfortably, which happens to be at Mrs. Mellark.

 

She sways closer to where Madge and I sit on the floor, and we stare up at her warily. She peers down at our trifold, her eyes squinting with effort. “I can help, too! Madge, baby, I’m really good at drawing. Not as good as your father,” she snickers, stumbling a little and almost stepping on my fingers. I draw back quickly and place my hand in my lap. I lock eyes with Mr. Mellark and he shakes his head, his normally cheerful expression a tense mask of disappointment and annoyance. “But I’m good for a line or two-”

 

Madge gasps in horror as fat streams of brown liquid splatter all over our trifold, and I barely register the rare curse words Madge’s father mutters as I stare at our ruined project in shock.

 

“Goddammit, Delly,” Mr. Mellark says roughly, shaking his head. Even I flinch at his tone. This isn’t the teasing, gentle man who stops and picks up turtles to help them across the road. “Do you know how long they’ve been working on this?”

 

“I-I,” she stutters, her eyes wide as she swings her head around the room. “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, kids.” She looks contrite and confused, as if she isn’t exactly sure of what she did. “I’ll buy you a new one.” She reaches down to pet at her daughters hair, and I cringe.

 

“You can’t just buy us a new project, Mom!” Madge explodes, twisting her head away violently as her normally placid exterior is ripped to shreds. “God, you’re so out of touch with reality. It’s sick.”

 

“I’m your mother!” she says weakly, shrugging off Mr. Mellark’s attempts to lead her from the room.

 

“You’re _drunk_ ,” Madge says with cold eyes, shaking her head and looking down at our project. My heart drops, because even though Madge sounds like an arctic breeze right now, I know that she’s near tears. I know my best friend, and she’s about to break down.

 

“It’ll be okay,” I say, standing up. I’m desperate to smooth things over. “Madge, it looks like the illustrations are mostly all right? It’s just, um-” I stop and look at what bore most of the brunt of her mother’s destruction. “Well, it looks like it’s just most of your text that was messed up,” I finish apologetically, wringing my hands.

 

Out of all of the days and nights I’ve spent at the Mellarks, I’ve never seen Madge or her father this upset. It’s unsettling, and I’m filled with anxiety because as imperfect as they are, my home life is ten times worse. This is my _normal_. I love these people, even Mrs. Mellark in her own way, and I hate to see any of them hurting.  

 

“Ugh,” Madge says under her breath, looking up at her mother angrily. “I knew I should have typed this out rather than write it by hand.” A tear slips down the older woman’s flushed cheek, her eyes glazed. I wonder if she even knows what she’s upset about anymore, she’s so far gone.  

 

“Maybe we can do a digital presentation?” Mr. Mellark suggests, his tone calm as he faces us, his palms outstretched. He places his hand on his wife’s back, and she is docile as she allows him to take the lead. “I can help you whip one up in no time flat.”

 

“It has to be a tangible visual aid to go along with our oral report,” Madge says flatly, her fingers clutching her pen. “Ms. Trinket is old-fashioned.”

 

“Alright, well, I can get a new trifold at the store,” Mr. Mellark says, leading his defeated wife out of the room. “We can cut out the drawings and then paste those to the new one— it’ll look great,” he assures us over his shoulder, his eyes locking on Madge’s, his voice steady and confident. “A little bit of a 3D effect.”

 

“Right!” I chime in, watching as Madge’s lip quivers slightly.

 

“I’ll be right back,” her dad says over his shoulder, carefully starting up the steps, his arm around Mrs. Mellark. But it’s not a gesture of affection- it’s to stop her from toppling backward. I’m never really quite sure exactly how drunk she is, because she’s normally what you’d call a high-functioning alcoholic. I watch as they finally disappear to the second floor, shaking my head and sitting back down beside my best friend.

 

“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning my head onto her shoulder.

 

“I hate her,” she says bitterly. “I hate my mother.”

 

Madge once told me, in a tight whisper under the cover of darkness, that her mother wasn’t always like this at night. That was in middle school, and I’ve never seen much variation in Mrs. Mellark’s patterns since then.

 

“You know she’ll regret this so much tomorrow,” I tell her. “She’ll hate herself enough for the both of you.”

 

“I find that hard to believe,” she laughs without humor, wiping at her eyes furiously.

 

“Look, I’ll start working on this block of text-” I say, but she cuts me off.

 

“No, you should go with Dad. Make sure he gets the right trifold,” she says. “If you don’t, he’ll end up buying something crazy and covered in gold leaf or something.”

 

“Your dad can handle this, Mad,” I say, my brows furrowing together in concern. “I think I should stay and help you.”

 

“No.” I blanch at the sharpness of her tone. Her face softens, and she sighs. “I need a few minutes alone, okay? I love you,” Madge says. “I just...right now, I feel overwhelmed.”

 

I nod slowly. “Okay.” I stand up and start to turn away. “If you’re sure...”

 

“I’m sure,” she says, sounding a little more like herself.

 

Mr. Mellark thuds down the stairs, loud and deliberate with his steps as always. I can’t help but think about the stark contrast between him and my own dad, and how I would never even hear him approach as I was pouring cereal into a bowl or quietly doing my homework. He had been quiet and graceful, a hunter’s silence to his movements. I shake my head clear of my thoughts. I don’t want to go down that road tonight, not when Madge feels so terrible and we have so much work to catch up on.

 

I walk toward him as he grabs his keys from the table in the entrance hallway, and he looks down at me in surprise as he turns the doorknob.

 

“Madge says I should come help you,” I say quietly, and a look of understanding passes across his face.

 

“Sure,” he says with a nod, looking over my shoulder and into the sunken living room where Madge sits crossed-legged, her head bowed over the ruined trifold. “Maddy, do you want me to pick up anything on the way home?”

 

“No.”

 

“You sure?” he presses, jingling his keys. “Nothing cold and vanilla and ice-creamish?”

 

I hear Madge huff quietly. “Fine, okay,” she says, waving her hand without looking up.

 

He looks at me in triumph, and we hold back a laugh. It’s only when we’re out the door, across the lawn and opening the doors to his new-model Prius that we actually release our chuckles.

 

“She’s so easy,” he says, shaking his head and starting the car.

 

“That’s what all the boys say,” I say loftily, smiling as he shoots me a look.

 

“ _Kidding_ ,” I reassure him with a shrug, reaching over to change the radio station. He swats at my hand, but I resist. “What can I say, sometimes I forget you’re such a dad.” I can’t explain how easy it is to talk to Mr. Mellark, especially when we’re alone together.

 

“Is it my cool hair?” he asks dryly, backing up onto the street carefully.

 

I throw a side-angled glance his way, making him laugh. “You’re proving my point,” I say, leaning back and watching the night zoom by through the passenger window.

 

It’s comfortably quiet as we drive through the peaceful streets of Twelve Acre, and I’m in my own world, humming to the tune of a popular song on the radio when his voice breaks me out of my zone. “Katniss,” Mr. Mellark starts softly, clearing his throat. I look over at him, but his eyes are glued to the road. “I’m so sorry about tonight.”

 

“It’s okay,” I say, shifting in my seat and awkwardly tugging on the seat belt.  

 

“It’s not.” He shakes his head and sighs, oblivious to my discomfort. “Del- Mrs. Mellark...well. I won’t talk down to you. You know how she is, but there’s no excuse. You girls worked hard on that project.”

 

“So did you,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “No big deal. At least she _tried_ to help.” My words slip out a little more bitterly than I originally intended, and it doesn’t escape his notice as he nods slowly.

 

“How’s your mom doing?” he asks, his voice casual. I catch the underlying meaning behind the question immediately, having heard the words from many well-intentioned i.e. nosy adults over the past few years. The difference is that I know Mr. Mellark actually cares rather than just looking for some gossip to spread around an upper-class book club that’s really just an excuse to drink too much and snack on low-carb hors d'oeuvres.

 

I sigh and slump a little in the passenger seat, my eyes falling to my lap. “She’s...okay,” I say carefully, pulling on the end of my braid reflexively. “She’s putting in a few extra shifts at the hospital lately.”

 

“Night shift?” he asks with sympathy, the street lights reflecting off of his blond hair as we drive past them. It’s weirdly hypnotic, and I blink before nodding silently.

 

He flicks on the right turning signal and veers onto Thirteenth Avenue before speaking again. “Well, you know you’re welcome at our house any time, Katniss. Even though maybe after tonight, you might be disgusted with us,” he says. “I know things been a little rough lately, but I’m handling it. I’d understand if you’re hesitant to come back, but Madge would be-”

 

“You’re a good dad, Mr. Mellark,” I interrupt him, embarrassed for some reason. But he needs to know I’m not judging them. How could I?

 

“I’m glad Madge has you,” he says seriously, looking at me and then back at the road. “You’ve been so good for her. The best friend she’s ever had.”

 

“Thanks,” I mumble, looking away. My voice strengthens a little when I add, “Don’t worry about tonight. I know Mrs. Mellark didn’t mean to mess everything up. Madge is gonna be fine, and we’re going to get an A on this project.”

 

He opens his mouth, maybe to protest, or even to apologize some more for his wife, but I barrel forward again. “I’ll even let you have the red marker again when we get back.”

 

He quirks his lips at the road, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Deal.”

 

We pull into the parking lot of The Hob a moment later. It’s basically an equal mix of a Walgreens and an old-fashioned mom n’pop store, with all the modern conveniences of the former but the charm of the latter. Twelve Acre is a smallish suburb outside of Washington DC, and it caters mostly to the wealthy class that likes to pretend they’re above commercialization. Of course, my family never shopped here even when Dad was alive, his salary as a game warden at the nearby wildlife park not really conducive to overpriced toilet paper. We were content to buy our items at the Dollar General on the outskirts of town.

 

Still, I can’t help but smile a little as we pass the quaint soda fountain tucked off to the side of the store. “When we leave, we’ll get the usual,” Mr. Mellark reassures me, following my line of sight with a grin, elbowing me lightly.

 

“I don’t know. I think I want to live dangerously lately,” I reply, making an apologetic face as he gently takes the shopping cart from me as I almost run into a display while analyzing the many drink and ice cream options on the chalkboard on the wall. “I think I want a hot fudge sundae.”

 

“What?” he feigns shock, stopping in front of the craft aisle that contains common school supplies such as glue, markers, and the cardboard poster display that we came to replace. “No frozen hot chocolate?”

 

“Nope,” I say, pointing at the trifold we need and watching as Mr. Mellark lifts it and places it carefully into the cart. “I think I’m going to get Madge something minty, just to shake things up a bit. I’m going to force her down this path of discovery with me.”

 

“Ha,” Mr. Mellark chuckles, “Madge would have a stroke if we came back with anything other than a vanilla milksh-”

 

I jump as a shrill scream rings out from somewhere in the store, and all hell breaks loose.

 

“Get down!” I hear a deep voice shout. “Down on the floor!”

 

Oh _god_.

 

I look over at Mr. Mellark, my eyes wide with fear. “The store is being robbed!” I say in a panicked whisper.  

 

“It’s okay,” he says tensely, pulling out his phone with a swift motion. “Just stay calm.”

 

“You two!” I look up, but Mr. Mellark quickly moves to stand in front of me. “Get the fuck up here with the rest of the party,” the man says with a humorless chuckle. I peer around one broad shoulder, and I see a terrifying black-masked face staring back at me. He’s tall and intimidatingly muscular, dressed in all black except for a heavy coat. “And don’t even think about calling anyone on that fancy phone of yours, asshole.”

 

There’s a tense moment where Mr. Mellark stays frozen where he stands, and I have a brief, wild fear that he’s going to have an actual stand-off with a masked criminal.

 

“All right,” Mr. Mellark finally says lowly, and I almost don’t hear it because he’s facing away from me. He puts a hand behind his back without turning around, and I don’t think twice as I slip my fingers through his. I walk closely, practically stepping on the back of his shoes, my face buried into his back as I let him blindly lead me to the front of the store. It reminds of last Halloween, the first time he and Madge had finally talked me into going to a well-known haunted house in the city, and how even though I knew it was all fake, I still clutched at the back of Mr. Mellark’s sweater and stared at the blue cotton fibers and pretended I was anywhere than where I was.

 

Just like now.

 

Except this is happening. This is real. We’re in the middle of a hold-up at The Hob, and we’re really sliding down to the ground in front of the cosmetics aisle, lined up single file against overpriced mascara and eyeliner and nail polish with Mr. Heavensbee, who owns the bowling alley and mini-golf course, and Rue Daniels, a barista at The Beanery down the street. I’m sure I would recognize the ten or so other people shivering on the floor if I wasn’t curled into Mr. Mellark’s side in fear, avoiding the mocking stares of the three darkly-clad figures with weapons standing in front of us.

 

“Now here’s what you’re gonna do,” the man with the gun drawls, tapping it carelessly against the side of his thigh. I can’t help but follow the weapon’s movement, morbid thoughts streaming through my brain. I feel a gentle squeeze of my fingers, and I squeeze back so hard my knuckles turn white.

 

“You’re gonna take out your phones and wallets,” the dull green eyes meet Mr. Mellark’s, “and slide them across the floor-”

 

“And don’t even _dream_ about calling anyone, or you’ll be lucky if I just cut your fingers off one at a time,” interrupts the smallest figure, her voice curling with vicious derision. I don’t know why it shocks me that one of them is a female, but it does. And she sounds young, too.

 

One by one, wallets and phones slide across the slick linoleum. Mr. Mellark’s is last, his hand releasing mine long enough to take out a leather billfold from his pocket and push it along with the expensive machinery across the floor. It lights up briefly, as if a text message has just come through, and I feel a thread of panic as the reality hits me that our only connection to the outside world is careening toward a bunch of lunatics.

 

The warmth of strong fingers envelops mine again, and my heart stops racing as strongly as it did before. _It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay_ , I chant to myself, my eyes squeezed tightly shut.

 

I hear a throat clear disturbingly close to me, and my eyes pop open as one of the masked figures crouches down next to my feet. It's the huge man with the heavy coat.

 

“You’re cute, but not that cute,” Heavy Coat chuckles, holding his hand out. One palm has a painfully jagged scar running across it, thick and messy, with patchy stitching-scars spaced so far apart it’s clear that he was sewn up on the fly. “Hand over your stuff.”

 

“I-” My voice cracks, and The Girl snickers meanly at my fear. “I don’t have anything,” I stutter out, my eyes wide. I feel my face flush with embarrassment, and I can’t believe I’ve actually found room for shame to creep in for my obvious lack of wealth. I don't have a car, and very rarely pocket money, so I don't need to carry around my wallet. My shitty pre-paid phone is out of minutes and sitting on my dresser back home. 

 

The man with the gun scoffs near the register, exchanging looks with the female. “Don’t listen to that bullshit,” The Gun says, rifling through drawers at the counter. “Like any little teenage bitch in this town doesn’t have a phone."

 

Heavy Coat ignores his friends, jerking his head toward Mr. Mellark instead, his eyes cold and appraising and stark against the black material surrounding them. “You think I’m some fuckin’ idiot, little girl?” he asks calmly, dragging his gaze toward me. I feel pinned. “You think I believe that your rich daddy didn’t buy you the newest iPhone?”

 

And just like that, I snap.

 

"My daddy is _dead_ ," I hear myself say, my voice surprisingly strong. When it comes to my father, I leak bitterness. Mr. Mellark squeezes my hand harder, and I don’t know if it’s in support, or a warning.

 

Heavy Coat blinks at me in surprise before smiling slowly, his lips curling as he looks back and forth between us. "Ah," he says, as if he's made a discovery.  "You got a thing for older men. I respect it."

 

I suddenly find myself being hoisted to my feet. The smirk drops off The Girl’s face as the man slides a hand down my side experimentally. I go stock-still with fear, all of my former anger draining away as this man paws at my body. _Is this really happening to me in the middle of The Hob?_

 

"Get your hands off of her," Mr. Mellark shouts, moving to stand up. I shriek as he's brutally kicked in the stomach, my heart in my throat as he groans and drops back to the floor unsteadily. I want to cry as I see him struggle to catch his breath, as he grimaces in pain. _Not Madge’s dad! I have to keep him safe!_  

 

"Sit down, old man. I gotta make sure she's not hiding a phone somewhere," Heavy Coat chuckles, and I suck in a breath as I’m roughly whirled around. My back is pressed against the man’s chest, and one of his hands slides up my stomach while the other is suddenly holding a knife to my throat. "Don't even think about playing hero..." He stops and lets me go long enough to retrieve a familiar leather billfold from the floor. I flinch as the steel blade finds it’s way back to my throat. “...Peeta Mellark, 1212 Victor Lane,” he reads off, scorn dropping from his words. “Real ritzy.”

 

The billfold drops by my feet, and I look at Mr. Mellark in terror and shame as a large hand cups one of my breasts. The glint of rage in his eyes is palpable, and his jaw is clenched as tightly as his fists. I hear murmurs of shock and disgust and fear from my fellow- prisoners? victims? It’s a moot point, because no one lifts a finger to help me, or even raises their voice in anger.

 

Except one.

 

“Let her go,” Mr. Mellark grits out, his eyes locked on mine. Reassurance is there, and I grab ahold of it, even as the man behind me slides a hand up my thigh and his fingers slip underneath my shorts, his fingertips grazing the edge of my underwear. “She’s just a kid.”

 

“Oh, but she feels like a _woman_ ,” the man croons back, and for one terrifying moment, I’m certain that that he’s going to push aside the thin material of my panties and assault me right here in front of my best friend’s dad and our friends and neighbors. I stop breathing. The cold metal of the knife against my throat burns the skin there. “But you probably know that already, _daddy_.” I feel the hot, insistent prod of Heavy Coat’s fingers creeping between my legs, and oh god I’m going to throw up.

 

I steel myself and prepare for the worst. I feel hot and cold with the dread of anticipation, and I startle when someone brushes past me violently. The Girl knocks into my elbow as she wheels around to face us, and even behind her mask I can tell her expression is contorted with anger.

 

“Let her go, Ca-” The Girl stops, catching herself. She looks behind her shoulder, a nervous gesture. If I wasn’t so shell-shocked, I’d feel vindication and a little joy at her discomfort. “Just let the bitch go and stop playing around. We’ve got to finish up and get the hell out of here.”

 

“But I’m having so much fun,” he replies, his voice rumbling in my ear. His finger toys with the edge of my underwear. I tremble and wait. There’s a tense moment in the air, a stand-off between the two of them. I count to ten, and as I reach nine, I find myself being roughly shoved back to the ground. I feel a knick of pain as I fall, but I’m so relieved to be away from the man that it barely registers. I’m immediately enveloped by strong arms and the smell of leather and mint and cinnamon. I hear a horrible shuddering, sucking noise, like a dying animal, and my vision is blurry. The noise is coming from me.

 

“It’s okay,” Mr. Mellark murmurs hoarsely, and I don’t resist as he gently pushes my head down to his shoulder. I’m vaguely aware that I’m practically in his lap as I gulp in fruitless breaths of air. “You’re having a panic attack, Katniss.”

 

_Oh, is that what this is?_

 

His voice sounds so far away. “Just focus on me, sweetheart. Okay? Just focus on my voice,” he says against my temple, and the cold store falls away. The masked psychos disappear. Rue the Barista and Mr. Heavensbee the Business Mogul and Leevy the Shop Girl might as well not exist either, because the voice in my ear is telling me it’s going to be okay and the smell of Mr. Mellark in my nostrils is my world.

 

“How sweet,” The Girl sneers somewhere to my left, but I ignore her. I breathe. In. out.

 

“She’s bleeding,” I hear someone else say, concern lacing their voice. I think it’s Rue the Barista. But I’m slightly confused, because who’s bleeding? My body shakes slightly, but it’s not me moving. I’m swaying with Mr. Mellark, and I crack an eye open to see him motioning “no” at her with a grimace, the force of his shaking head moving me as well.

 

“She’ll live,” The Gun says with a laugh. “Cato just nicked her— aw, fuck.”

 

The silence in the room is unnerving.

 

“You fuckin’ idiot,” his partner grits out angrily. I watch the scene play out with slitted eyes, the three criminals converging in a group and motioning toward us violently.

 

“Are they going to kill us now?” a woman I vaguely recognize as the mayor’s wife whispers hysterically, wringing her hands. “We know one of their names!”

 

“I’m getting outta here,” a large boy mutters, and I think his name is Thresh, a senior at my school. I open my mouth to tell him not to, but it’s like my tongue doesn’t work. I can’t speak, and I’m frozen. _Don’t do it_ , I think. _Don’t._

 

“No!” Mr. Mellark says in a heated whisper, shaking his head. He clutches me to him tightly, one of his thumbs pressed against my neck where a steady wetness drips onto my collar bone. I see the dark red hue out of the peripheral vision of my eyes, but it doesn’t even seem like my blood. It has to belong to someone else. Not me. “They have a gun. We can talk this out-”

 

“Fuck talking, man,” Thresh interrupts lowly, and we all stare with wide eyes as he creeps onto his haunches, half walking, half crawling towards the front door. I find myself staring at the group of criminals, who aren’t paying any attention to us- instead, their voices are raised and I think one of them may be about to stab the other. “I’ll get help.”

 

“This is an extraordinarily bad idea, young man,” Mr. Heavensbee says, his face ruddy and sweating as his eyes dart back and forth. He looks really bad, the veins at his temples standing out in stark relief, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “I’d advise you-”

 

“You ain’t advisin’ me shit, because I’m getting out of here alive,” he replies under his breath. “You can thank me later when I get your asses out of here, too.”

 

Mr. Mellark makes another hushed plea for Thresh to stop, but it’s too late. We all watch in horror as he makes his way across the floor. I burrow closer to Mr. Mellark’s warmth, and I feel weak with fear as I watch Cato give a hard shove to The Gun, The Girl yelling between them. My eyes flit back to Thresh, who is now perilously close to the door.

 

“I think he might make it,” Leevy the Shop Girl says in awe. Hope leaps to my throat.

 

What happens next is in slow motion.    

 

Mr. Heavensbee crashes backward against the cosmetics, packets of mascara and eyeliner flying out from behind him as he shudders. Rue cries out, clapping a hand over her mouth as she looks back and forth between the man having a heart attack and Thresh, who freezes by the door.

 

Thresh looks at me, just once, his eyes wide. A shot rings out in the air. And then he topples over.

 

I think I cry out. Arms tighten around me and I hear a scream.

 

Everything goes black.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**madge 6:00 PM: You're coming over tonight?**

**madge 6:05 PM: Right?**

**madge 6:11 PM: Katniss?**

****

I stare down at my phone and wince at every incoming text from Madge. I’m hyper aware that’s it been too long since I've been over to her house, especially considering that I've practically lived there for the past few years of our lives—and if we’re splitting hairs, it's been way too long since we've had an actual conversation that meant something beyond _what's the homework?_ and _how are you feeling today?_

 

But...I just- I can't. Couldn't. Not yet.

 

It's been over a month now, but I still hear the screams, the gunshots, the feel of a knife against my throat. My fingers fly up to the scar at my neck, a constant, involuntary gesture now. I grimace as I feel the raised flesh there, taunting me. _It happened. It wasn’t a dream_ , it seems to say on a constant loop.

 

The scar is mostly healed- just a thin red line from where the stitches had been carefully applied. My mother had simply handed over a prescription cream and assured me that as long as I followed the instructions carefully, the mark wouldn't last .

 

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that some scars are forever.

 

I slide down from where I had been stiffly poised at the edge of my bed and drop to the floor in a graceless heap, drawing my knees up to my chest. No one understands. Not really. The people who _do_ understand can't even make eye contact with me. The few times that I've seen them around town, or at school, or even at the coffee shop that one time I was desperate enough for a caffeine boost (and actually had change in my pocket to acquire it), the most I’ve gotten has been a tense stare of recognition and a tight expression of _don’t talk to me._

 

I rub at the scar again absently, and realize with a flash- I want to talk about it. I suddenly and inexplicably _yearn_ to talk to someone for the first time. To ease the burden of survivor's guilt, or PTSD, or whatever the fuck it was called by the counselor that I was forced to see for a week before I put my foot down and refused to go back. Threw a fit about it, if I’m being honest. The physician and psychiatrist and even my mother frowned at my decision, but she signed off on the waiver for me anyway, which hadn’t surprised me. The path of least resistance is generally what works the most for my mother, but in this case, it was finally to my benefit. Her general lack of interest in my life had to pay off at some point.

 

My cheap phone vibrates again. “Shit,” I sigh, scrubbing at my face before reading the incoming text.

 

**madge 6:16 PM: It's your birthday. You can't be alone on your birthday, katniss**

****

I type back a quick response: _I don't care about that, it's fine_

**madge 6:17 PM:** **That's a lie you tell your mom every year. Not me.**

 

**madge 6:17 PM: Dad is making a cake for you... you’ll hurt his feelings if you don't come**

My heart starts beating faster at the mention of her dad, and I hesitate before answering her.

 

_No. I don't want him to go out of his way for me_

**madge 6:18 PM: Get real. Dad loves going out his way for you**

**madge 6:18 PM: He's worried about you. We both are. Please come tonight**

I feel my resistance fade and melt at her words. Concern. A family. People who care about me— this is my ultimate weakness.

 

I bite my lip, and tap out a reply:

 

_Ok._

****

* * *

 

 

It's a Saturday, which means traffic is a little heavier than usual as I cross a few of the major intersections that will lead me to the Mellarks' neighborhood. I'm so anxious and distracted that I don't even notice as I almost step out in front of a car. I hold up a hand apologetically and scurry across to the other side of the street, my face flushed with effort as I finally round the corner that turns into Victor Lane.

 

“Why am I so nervous?” I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck. I jam my hands into my pockets and take slow, deliberate breaths. These aren't strangers. These are my **people**.

The thing is, I know exactly why I’m so off-kilter right now. It’s just embarrassing and weird and very confusing to admit to myself: I haven't seen Madge’s dad since the robbery. I didn't go to Thresh's funeral, and I hurried out of the hospital without talking to Mr. Mellark first. I had tried, but it...hadn’t worked out. 

 

_I blinked as the harsh lights of the hospital room bored into my eyes. I felt confusion and panic set in, because I knew something was wrong, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it...something happened...oh god._

_The robbery. The Hob. Mr. Mellark. THRESH._

_I sat up suddenly and ran my hands through my hair in agitation, jumping when the door swung open._

_“You’re awake!” my mother exclaimed._

_“How’s Mr. Mellark?” was the first thing I rasped, reaching up and touching my neck gingerly. I could feel the thick bandage that was placed over it, but I couldn’t for the life of me pinpoint exactly what had happened. It all seemed like a blur._

_“He’s doing fine,” she said brusquely, eyeing me as she strode forward and peeled away the bandage, nodding in satisfaction at what she saw. “Your stitches look great. Dr. Aurelius did a beautiful job.”_

_I stared at her, dumbfounded._

_“What happened?” I asked, my tongue thick in my mouth. I felt slightly woozy, but okay. Better than I should have felt, because unless it had all been a nightmare, a mistake, I saw my classmate get shot in front of my eyes._

_“Oh, Katniss,” she softened, and I actually saw a mom for once, rather than a nurse practitioner. “What do you remember about the The Hob? The robbery?”_

_“Just that,” I whispered. “Someone was s-shot.” I could barely stand the pitying look in her eye. “Did they…?” I couldn’t finish the sentence._

_“They didn’t make it,” she confirmed, shaking her head. “Such a shame.”_

_“God,” I said weakly, my head thumping back against the pillow. “Did anyone else...?!”_

_“No, thankfully. Everyone else survived. The three people responsible were caught trying to flee the scene. You passed out before that, either from shock or blood loss,” she nodded at my neck, and I swallowed as I remembered  the cold steel of Heavy Coat’s knife against my throat. “According to Peeta-” I frowned at her words; it was so strange to hear his first name from her mouth, they were basically like two different parts of my life, "-pandemonium broke out after the first gunshot was fired. He was hurt in the shuffle from a fairly uncomplicated bullet graze.”_

_My eyes widened. A bullet graze. Mr. Mellark was_ shot _._

_I was still processing this as she continued, “By then, the police had already been alerted. Apparently someone managed to call them before your phones were taken.”_

_I mindlessly nodded along with her words until I realized she was expecting a response._

_“How long has it been? Have I been asleep the whole time?”_

_“It’s only been a few hours.”  She shook her head. “You woke up once, but we put you back under for the stitches. The anaesthesia is affecting your memory right now.” She grimaced.  “Your neck had been cut fairly deep, and you were...not yourself.”_

_“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. This was the longest conversation we had held in years._

_“Well-” She looked uncomfortable, patting my hand. “You’re all patched up. There’s no reason why you can’t be discharged now. Dr. Aurelius has approved it, and I’ve arranged with Hazelle to drive you home.” Hazelle Hawthorne is also a nurse, and I’d been friends with her son Gale since we were kids. I trust her, and I know her well, but I couldn’t help but feel a stab of betrayal when I realized my own mother wasn’t going to see me home. “The police wanted to take a statement from you, but they’ve agreed to wait until tomorrow.”_

_“Okay,” I replied instead. I wanted to go home._

_I just had to do one thing first._

_“What room is Mr. Mellark in?” I asked abruptly, and she looked at me in surprise before rattling off the number. She told me to meet Mrs. Hawthorne downstairs in the lobby in thirty minutes._

_I sighed in relief once I had changed into a fresh set of clothes that my mother had laid out for me. I paused to consider that she must have gone all the way home to pick these up, wondering at the gesture before fixating on visiting Mr. Mellark._

_His room was only three halls away from mine, and easy to find. Most of the nurses on that floor knew me, and no one stopped me or asked where I was going as I gingerly walked the carpeted floors. The door was cracked, and something stopped me from  pushing it open all the way before I peered inside._

_Mr. Mellark was sitting up in bed, Madge and her mother sitting on either side of him. I could see fresh tear tracks on Madge’s face, but whatever she said to her dad made Mr. Mellark throw his head back and laugh._

_They were coping. He looked weaker than I had ever seen him, but well. Even Mrs. Mellark was holding it together, and you’d never know that hours before she had been drunk from a day-drinking binge. They were a family. They cared about each other._

_I closed the door, and walked away._

I inhale a deep breath as I take the familiar steps up the cobblestoned walkway leading to the front door, awkwardness already setting in before I reach the porch. Do I just walk in like usual? Do I knock? Why does this feel-

 

My thoughts are interrupted as the door flies open to reveal Madge, her hands on her hips as she surveys me. “I thought I’d save you from your inner monologue and torment,” she says dryly, pulling me to her and wrapping me in a hug. Even though we’ve seen each other at school, this feels different. “Happy birthday,” she adds. The words are whispered into my ear fiercely, and I hear the undertones: _I miss you. I’m glad you’re here. Everything is fine, and we’re the same._

 

“Dad!” Madge calls out, tugging on my hand and pulling me into the house. She shuts the door behind me and shoots a quizzical look my way when I just stand there, frozen and weird in the entrance hall. “Guess who’s here?”

 

I stiffen as Mr. Mellark pops his head around the corner, where the kitchen is located.

 

“Katniss!” he exclaims, his entire body appearing as he hurries around the corner to greet me. My eyes are immediately drawn to his slight limp, knowing that his leg had taken the brunt of the bullet wound. Madge had informed me that it would heal with time and therapy, that it really wasn’t that big of a deal, but I can’t help the thumping of my heart as I watch him lumber our way.

 

“I’m so glad you came over,” he says sincerely, stopping in front of me. He opens his arms, and I both embarrass and surprise myself when I immediately fall into them. I hear Madge make an amused noise behind me, but I don’t care.

 

“Hey there,” he says with a small laugh, patting my back comfortingly. “It’s good to see you, too.” His voice is steady in my ear, and I’m horrified when I feel tears start to sting my eyes.

 

I pull back with hasty movements, blinking rapidly. “Sorry,” I reply quietly, my face burning. Madge claps me on the shoulder before walking past us toward the kitchen.

 

“It’s fine,” he assures me, waving his hand for me to follow him. We tread behind Madge into the kitchen, and my mouth drops open as I survey the masterpiece in front of me.

 

It’s my birthday cake, and out of the past five he’s made for me, it’s the best one yet.

 

This isn’t something that I say lightly. Mr. Mellark may be a professor of art, but he’s a _genius_ at baked goods. His family had owned multiple bakeries, one of those most popular ones in the city, but when his dad died of a heart attack when Mr. Mellark was still in college, his mother had sold the entire chain of them. I guess the memories were too painful for her, because she moved to Florida and left Madge’s dad to finish up school by himself.

 

I understand the pain of losing someone and the extremes it can push you into, but part of me judges her for leaving her son behind. Then again, maybe I’d be more understanding if I actually liked the woman.

 

I’ve met her a few times at holiday functions and birthdays, and while she’s pleasant enough to me, I can feel the judgment in her eyes when I peel open a Mellark-wrapped Christmas present or take a bite of Happy-Birthday-Madge ice cream. _You don’t belong here_ , she seems to say with her heavily mascaraed eyes.It would be hard not to feel some offense at that if not for Madge and Mr. Mellark, who have always made me feel like a part of absolutely everything.

 

Like now. As I stare at the birthday cake, four layers of forest green perfection, topped with spun sugar twisted into trees and little bursts of brightly colored flora dotting the icinged landscape, I realize how stupid I’ve been to stay away from here. Nothing has changed. This is where I belong, around people who care about me enough to not only remember my birthday, but also create traditions in my honor. Celebrations I hadn’t had the luxury of in the years before befriending Madge.

 

It had been inevitable, coming back here. Listening to Mr. Mellark and Madge sing a tuneless but genuine birthday song to me makes me smile in a way that I haven’t in weeks.

 

“Make a wish,” Madge says after they are done, rocking back on her heels and pulling on my braid with a laugh.

 

“Make it a good one,” her dad teases from across the table. 

 

I inhale deeply, staring at the brightly lit candles, and my eyes flutter upward on their own accord. Mr. Mellark looks back encouragingly, and for some reason, I don’t look away as I blow out the candles. My breath waffles slowly across the flames, and he blinks, his smile faltering only a little.

 

“What did you wish for?” Madge asks after all the lights are extinguished.

 

I shrug, breaking eye contact with her dad. “I can’t say.”

 

“Aww, are you afraid it won’t come true?” Madge rolls her eyes and pulls a tub of ice cream out of the freezer. “Or is it bad luck?”

 

“I definitely don’t need any more of that,” I reply, but the joke falls flat. Madge bumps my hip apologetically.

 

“Well,” Mr. Mellark says. “Who wants cake?”

 

* * *

 

 

_I’m running through an aisle of snakes, and I scream as they hiss and snap their jaws at me as a I rush past, footsteps pounding behind me as my legs push forward._

_Sharp spears and gunshots empty into the air over my head, and my heart pounds in my chest, sweat pouring down my face in hot rivulets._

_Where is he,_ I think in absolute panic. _Where is he, where is he? I need to find him!_

_Katniss! he shouts. Katniss!_

_I’m so close to his voice. I’m so close, and I’m almost there...and then I’m free-falling down. Down, down, down a hole, and I lose him._

I wake up with a start, flying forward so fast that I’m dizzy and gasping. I pull my knees to my chest as I clutch at my heart, the thumping so fierce in my chest that I question if I’m not having a stroke.

 

“Katniss?” Madge mumbles, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

 

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper back, scrubbing at my sweaty face. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“You sure?” she asks, staring at me with bleary-eyed confusion.

 

“I just need some water,” I lie, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

 

“All right.” Her voice is half-asleep again. “If you’re sure…”

 

I peer over my shoulder and smile a little despite myself. Madge is already passed out again. _At least one of us is getting some rest tonight_. I pull on her most comfortable bedroom slippers and quietly ease out of her room. I pass by her parent’s door and then pad down the stairs, heading toward the kitchen.

 

I stop in surprise as I realize the light is on. I frown, wondering if it’s Mrs. Mellark indulging in a late-night drink. She had already gone to bed before I showed up tonight -definitely not an unusual occurrence- and It’s always possible that she had woke up in the middle of the night, even though she’s normally out cold until the late morning.

 

I debate on disappearing back upstairs, but I just can’t face going to sleep yet. I really am thirsty, and completely wide-awake at this point. I turn the corner with a sigh, and my eyebrows raise.

 

He’s facing the kitchen counter, mostly angled away from me as his hands busily slice cheese on a cutting board. Soft music plays from his iPhone, and it would be a peaceful scene if not for the stiff line of his shoulders and the tense set of his jaw.

 

“Mr. Mellark?” I say quietly. He startles anyway, his eyes comically wide as he turns to face me.

 

“Katniss,” he gasps, placing the knife on the counter. “God, I forget sometimes how quiet you are.”

 

“Sorry,” I apologize, looking down.

 

“No, it’s fine,” he rushes to reassure me, running a hand through his hair. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”

 

“I am,” I say with surprise. I haven’t had an appetite since the shooting.

 

“I was just making an omelette. Is that okay? I can make something else if you want. I know we have some leftovers-”

 

“That sounds amazing,” I interrupt him with a small smile. I slide onto a stool and watch him cook, the motions comforting as he expertly cracks eggs and whisks them with salt and pepper, his hands careful as he pours the mixture into a butter-coated pan.There’s a companionable type of quietness in the air as he works, and I feel my eyes getting heavy as I prop my chin in my hands.

 

“How are you really doing, Katniss?” he asks softly, breaking the silence.

 

Now I’m wide awake again. I flush and rub the back of my neck before speaking. “I’m- I’m okay,” I reply cautiously, thankful he’s not looking at me.

 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” His arm flexes as he flips the omelette. “I won’t press you, but just know you can talk to me anytime.”

 

I bite my lip .“Are you?” I blurt out, toying with the end of my braid. “Okay, I mean?”

 

He’s quiet a moment, reaching above his head to open a cabinet and pull down two plates. No paper products for the Mellark household. “I’m happy to be alive. That you’re safe,” he finally says, his voice so soft I almost miss it. “I’m not okay with what happened. I’m struggling with that every day.”

 

I’m thrown off by his honesty. “I guess that’s how I feel, too.”

 

“I’ve thought about you so much,” he says suddenly, and I feel a rush of warmth blossom in my chest when he looks over his shoulder at me. “Madge said you were coping, but...I wanted to call. I wanted to visit you, but I didn’t- I just didn’t.”

 

“It’s okay,” I say, hiding my face with the pretense of scratching my leg.

 

“It’s not,” he presses, looking away. “Madge and I tried to go see you in the hospital, but you were already gone.”

 

“Yeah, my mom pulled some strings. I was okay,” I shrug it off. “I’m sorry I didn’t go see how you were doing.” I don’t feel bad about lying. No way he is going to know I was watching their happy family scene like a homeless person through a glass window.

 

“I was only there a few days,” he said. “I can do most of my rehab from home.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” I say, the words rushing out of me. “It’s my fault you got hurt.”

 

“What?” He turns around fully then, his face displaying his shock and dismay. “Katniss, nothing about what happened was your fault. There’s _nothing_ you could have done.”

 

“But-”

 

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “You’re young, and I know everything seems-”

 

“I’m not that young.”

 

He smiles at me, his eyes gentle. “That’s right. You’re eighteen now, an adult for a whole day,” he says, his voice teasing.

 

“Please, don’t patronize me.” I can take it from anyone but him. Even before what happened, I respected the fact that Mr. Mellark never bullshitted or talked down to me like so many “adults.”

 

“I’m not,” he says, looking stung. “I just hate this. I’m so, so-” He falters as he scoops half of an omelette onto my plate. “- _fucking_ angry about what that bastard did to you.”

 

My mouth drops slightly. “Wow.” The laughter come suddenly and without warning.

 

“What?” He looks at me in confusion and slight irritation, placing the food in front of me. “Katniss, why are you laughing?”

 

“It’s funny to hear you sound so hardcore,” I reply, accepting the fork he places in my hand. “It’s just so rare, Mr. Mellark.”

 

“Well, I mean it.” He sits down heavily in front of me, his eyes trained on my neck. I long to drop my fork and cover it with my hand, to touch it, but I force myself to scoop a bite full of omelette into my mouth instead. “I should have protected you more. That he even touched you-”

 

“You did everything you could. Anything more and you’d be dead,” I interrupt bluntly, echoing his similar words to me. It feels so good to talk about this with someone who understands. “And you tried to help Thresh-” I stop.

 

Mr. Mellark looks pained. “He was gone before anyone could do anything. I knew it the moment he hit the ground. I had a hold of you.” He takes a sip of water at this, and I blink when I see a hint of red creep across his cheeks. “And once the gun went off, everyone else scattered. It’s as if people were so afraid that they _stopped_ being afraid, if that makes sense. One of the guys fired the gun again, I don’t know toward whom, but it ricocheted off the floor and hit me in the leg.”

 

“God,” I whisper, staring down at the table. “I don’t remember any of that.”

 

“No,” he agrees, his expression turning grim. “You wouldn’t have. You were passed out completely. I’m just so thankful it hit me and not you.”

 

We’re both quiet after that, the muffled noises of forks against plates and muted sips the only noise in the room. My eyes are finally getting a little heavy for the first time since I woke up from my nightmare, but I find myself not really wanting to go back upstairs. I take my time finishing my glass of water, but eventually I can’t stall anymore, and I hand my cup to Mr. Mellark as he finishes loading the dishwasher.

 

“Well, good night,” I say hesitantly.

 

“Good night,” he replies. I turn away, but his voice stops me. “And Katniss? I’m serious. You can talk to me. Any time. I won’t ever push you, but I’m here.”

 

I pause. “Thanks,” I mumble over my shoulder, and make a slow trek back upstairs.

 

It’s only when I’m back in bed, carefully tugging my side of the covers away from Madge’s clenched, sleepy fingers, that I wonder why Mr. Mellark was awake as well. 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Shannon and Abba for their help with this chapter. All mistakes are mine.


	3. Chapter 3

“Is she feeling any better?” Mr. Mellark asks, his face dropping in concern as he peers behind my shoulder.

 

I grimace at the retching noises coming from the bathroom I just exited. He winces, and I chew on the end of my braid.

 

“She’s still, uh, pretty rough.”

 

“It’s all your fault!” Madge calls weakly. “Your leftover birthday cake made me sick.”

 

“Hey!” her dad says, rapping on the the bathroom door. “I’ll have you know that was a perfectly crafted work of art by yours truly.” He looks at me and lowers his voice. “I think it was the Mexican restaurant we went to before you came over last night.”

 

“I can _hear_ you,” she groans from behind the door, and the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting porcelain rocks my ears again. Mr. Mellark practically turns green and leans against the wall, and I can’t say I feel much better. My mom is the unflappable one when it comes to sickness, not me. “Please, leave me here to die. Never mention Mexican food to me again, por favo-- _ugh_.”

 

“I’m going to the store to see what kind of medicine I can pick up,” Mr. Mellark announces, looking determined. He pushes himself off the wall and pats his pockets absently, searching for his wallet.

 

“There’s no medicine for this. I have to just wait it out,” Madge says, her words coated in misery. “I’ll be fine. I think you and Katniss should just go ahead without me, Dad.”

 

He exchanges a glance with me, and I shake my head.

 

“No way,” I protest, opening the door and peering at Madge. She glares at me, her sweaty face and lank hair a testament to how awful she feels. She points and mouths for me to _get out_. I had to fight her the first time to gain entry into her little puke palace. “We’re not leaving you, sick-o.”

 

“Just go,” she replies from the floor. “I’d rather dwell in misery by myself and have you two out of my face.“

 

After the candles were blown out and the ice cream had been dished into bowls, Mr. Mellark suggested taking us into the city for an impromptu birthday trip. He’s made a conscious effort to inject culture into our lives for years -something I’ve definitely appreciated- so after he pointed out over a mouthful of cake that it had been awhile since we’d gotten away and visited a few museums, I had readily agreed. I very seldom have a chance to get out of town, and I knew I needed a change of scenery now more than ever. Madge, easygoing as always, agreed as well, and plans were made to catch a train at noon the next day.

 

But at six o’clock this morning, only a few short hours after I had left Mr. Mellark in the kitchen, Madge was rocketing out of the bed and making a shaky bee-line for the bathroom.

 

And now here we are.

 

“Seriously.” Her voice softens. “You deserve a nice day away." I make a face at her and look over my shoulder at Mr. Mellark, who just shrugs back at me with a torn expression. “It’ll make me feel better,” Madge adds manipulatively, and I laugh.

 

“Low blow,” I scold her. I look back at her dad again and he just shakes his head.

 

“It’s up to you, Katniss.” He checks his watch. “We need to leave soon if we’re going.” He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I move out of the way automatically.

 

“God, Dad,” Madge complains when he walks into her line of sight. “Get out.”

 

“No,” he says firmly, kneeling down beside her and pushing her sweaty bangs away from her forehead. “Look at me.”

 

She frowns up at him reluctantly.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay with us leaving you?” he asks. “Your mother is here, of course-”

 

Madge laughs but quickly pales, gagging into the toilet again.

 

“See, I’m not comfortable with this,” he says, scrubbing at his cheek. A frown line appears on his forehead, and for some reason it fascinates me. Just that little wrinkle of imperfection, tangible proof of love and concern on an otherwise unmarred face, has my full attention. When I realize I’m staring at him, I finally tear my eyes away. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

“What are you going to do?” she demands, wiping her mouth with a Kleenex she pulls from a box beside the toilet. “Hold my hand while I puke and...other things...all day?” She grimaces. “I don’t think so.” She sees her dad’s face and sighs. “If I really need something, I’ll get Mom to do it. At the very worst, I can call Aunt Maysilee, okay? And I’ll text you and let you know how I’m feeling.”

 

“I suppose…” Mr. Mellark trails off, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Katniss? Do you want to go?”

 

I bite my lip. Madge meets my eyes and nods encouragingly. She knows it’s hard for me to ask for anything for myself. And the truth is that I really need this time away. After leaving the kitchen last night and lying in bed for an hour while staring at the ceiling, the only thing that calmed me down enough to eventually slide into sleep was the thought of getting a little distance from Twelve Acre.

 

 “I do,” I finally admit, my eyes darting to meet his. Understanding flashes there, and he nods.

 

“Okay,” he says, standing up. “We need to hustle then.”

 

“Bring me back something,” Madge says, and Mr. Mellark and I laugh at her childish tone.

 

“Sure thing,” he teases her. “First, I’m going to bring a few things to your bathroom nest, and then we’ll be off.”

 

He tells me to start the car and wait while he gets together a few bottles of water and easy-to-reach necessities for Madge, and when he finally slides into the driver’s seat, he hands me my hoodie that I had left on the back of a kitchen chair.

 

“You forgot this,” he says.

 

“On purpose,” I reply, fiddling with the radio. “It’s going to be hot walking around in the concrete jungle.” I eye his casual outfit that he speedily changed into while I waited, his jeans and a simple gray t-shirt not exactly winter-wear either.

 

“But you get cold really easily,” he argues. “Remember when your lips practically turned blue in the Smithsonian?”

 

“I think I’d rather freeze to death than haul around my hoodie all day.”

 

“Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, backing out of the driveway. “I’ll hold it for you.”

 

I look at him sharply, but he’s oblivious as he zooms into the street. “Thanks,” I say, my voice a little raspy. “This seems a little familiar, huh?” I try to make a joke and detract from the fact that I’m feeling misty-eyed over the smallest show of thoughtfulness. I’m that damn starved for affection. Pathetic. “You, me, the wind in our hair...but minus the whole facing-certain-death thing.”

 

He shoots me an exasperated look. “Your inappropriate humor is so charming,” he deadpans. Then his face softens. “I’m glad to hear you making jokes again.”

 

“Hey, Mr. Mellark?”

 

“Peeta,” he corrects me in a firm voice. “It’s time.”

 

I blink. “What?”

 

“Call me Peeta. You’re an adult now, and-- well. I think after what we’ve been through together...you can officially drop the formal title,” he says wryly. “Not that we’ve ever needed them before, but you insisted.” He looks at me expectantly. “I’d like to think we’re friends.”

 

“Okay,” I say slowly, my hands twisting in my lap. I feel a little stunned and thrown off, and I don’t know why. Mr. Mellark has asked me to call him Peeta for years, but he’s insisting now. And it feels...right. “Peeta.” I sound out his name and laugh a little.

 

I look over and try to analyze the expression on his face. It’s a mix of things that I can’t quite interpret. Amusement at my silliness, maybe. A sliver of relief. I don’t know. I’ve never been good at reading people, even the ones I know well.

 

“What?” I ask a little self-consciously.

 

“Nothing.” He smiles at the road.

 

“Mmhmm. Well... _Peeta_ ,” I say again, and my voice lowers. “Thank you.”

 

“For what?” he asks, surprised.

 

“For this. For getting me out of town. I know you didn’t want to leave Madge.”

 

He shakes his head, the waves of his hair moving with the motion. “I hate to leave her when she’s feeling so terribly, but the truth is, Katniss-” He stops. “Well. I needed this trip, too.”

 

“Yeah?” I ask, feeling relieved. Glad that I’m not being selfish. That I’m not alone in my feelings.

 

“Yes,” he replies, turning into the train station parking lot. “We both did.”

 

We park in the extended stay parking lot, and when we exit the car, I frown when I see Mr. Mell- _Peeta_ limping.

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I blurt out, my face turning pink when he wheels around and raises an eyebrow at my very sudden change of heart.

 

“Why?” he asks in confusion, checking his watch.

 

“It’s just…” I hesitate. “It’s so much walking.”

 

A light of comprehension dawns on his face. “Katniss,” he says, taking a step toward me. He places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine, I promise. My rehab specialist has even recommended exercise like this.”

 

“Sightseeing in a huge city?” I ask doubtfully, crossing my arms.

 

“I have to go back to work on Monday,” he says, smiling. “This will be good practice for when I limp to my office.”

 

“Oh, please.” I level a stare at him. “You'll have to walk a few blocks." My nose wrinkles. "This is different.”

 

He laughs. “Let me be the one to worry, kid. I think I’m more in shape than you,” he says as he turns away. He calls over his shoulder, “You coming?”

 

I scowl and hustle after him. “I’ll have you know I’m in perfect shape,” I inform him. We enter the station, and I stand next to him as he pays for two tickets into DC. “I walk everywhere. You know, the thing people do who don’t own cars?”

 

His face softens as he turns toward me, tickets in hand. “I know,” he says. “I don’t like it. I never have.”

 

“I’m fine,” I reply with a shrug, deftly sidestepping someone’s luggage in the middle of the floor. I silently point it out to Peeta so he doesn’t trip over it and incur any other leg injuries, and he nods gratefully. “I’m used to it.”

 

His eyebrows furrow together, but he doesn't comment any further, and we’re quiet as we board the train. Peeta wasn’t kidding when he said we had to hustle-- we depart only minutes after we buckle into our seats. The motion of the train is lulling and peaceful, and it's not long before it has a drugging effect on my body. My eyelids are so heavy that they feel as if anchored with weights, and as they begin to drop I realize the full extent of my exhaustion. My eyes keep fluttering shut, and for one mortifying moment my head hits Peeta’s shoulder before I jerk upright.

 

“If you want to take a short nap, go ahead,” he offers. “I’ll wake you up when we’re close.”

 

“I better not.” From the light violet marks shaded beneath his eyes, I can’t help but think that he would be better off taking a nap instead of me.

_He was up late last night, too_ , I remind myself. I briefly entertain the idea that he is having as hard a time sleeping at night as me, but promptly dismiss the thought. Peeta isn’t weak like me.

I clear my throat.“Would you rather lick the floor of this train, or drink after that guy with the crusty lips?” I discreetly point at a man two seats in front us, and Peeta makes a face. He and Madge are both really weird about drinking and eating after people. Total germaphobes.

 

“That’s terrible,” he says lowly. “I think…” he pretends to be in heavy thought before snapping his fingers. “I know.” He points at me. “You need to take a nap.”

 

 _“Peeta._ You have to answer the question. It’s the rules.”

 

He laughs when I narrow my eyes indignantly at his evasion, and we bicker back and forth when I ask increasingly disgusting questions that he refuses to answer. We finally fall into an amused, companionable silence when the old lady in front of us turns and gives us a dirty look, and before I know it, my eyes are heavy again

 

 _I’ll just close them for a minute_ , I promise myself. I refuse to use Peeta as a pillow or do anything embarrassing in my sleep, like scream or cry or any of the other things that come with the territory these days. _I’ll just rest my eyes...for...a second..._

 

But when I open my eyes again we’re pulling into Union Station, and my head is definitely burrowed into Peeta’s neck, the warmth of his even breath puffing against my cheek as he lightly snores.

 

And our fingers are tangled together on the console between us.

  

* * *

 

 

“Which museum do you want to go to first?” he asks, shading his eyes with his hands. The sun is especially bright, and it reflects off the glass and chrome buildings like laser beams.

 

“Um. It’s up to you,” I say, trying my hardest not to act in an awkward manner. It’s sort of difficult, though, when you wake up practically holding hands with your best friend’s dad. To his credit, he acted totally cool about it, even making a joke that it was the best sleep he’s had in ages. I just smiled and tried to hold back the devastating blush that I felt pushing at the surface of my skin, fighting the urge to say, _Me too._

 

By some horrible twist of fate, the most fulfilling sleep I’ve had in a month was a thirty minute train ride with Mr. Mellark. _Peeta_.

 

“How about the Postal Museum?” I suggest innocently, peering at the large building in the nearby distance.

 

Peeta throws an incredulous look my way. “ _The Postal Museum_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

““You’ve never wanted to go before.” His expression is filled with suspicion.

 

“I have a burning desire to educate myself on the history of the Pony Express.”

 

He purses his lips at me. “Could that have anything to do with the fact that it’s only about fifty feet to our right and you keep looking at my leg as if I’m going to collapse in the middle of the street?”

 

“No,” I say, pretending to be affronted. I skip backwards. “I like stamps.”

 

“I’m sure,” he snorts, shaking his head at me. I try not to laugh when his blonde hair rustles in the strong wind that gusts around us, and he smiles wryly before giving up any attempt at maintaining his haphazard curls. I’m glad to have my hair pulled back in a tidy braid with this weather. “Fine. We’ll go satisfy all of your postal curiosities, but then we’re going to the National Gallery.”

 

“But-”

 

“No buts.” He rolls his eyes and puts his hand on my back, leading me toward our destination. “We’ll grab a taxi, all right? But I have a really strong hankering to share a Lichtenstein with you today.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you what a nerd you are?” I ask, flicking my fingers at him.

 

“All the time!” he says, limping along cheerfully. “Appreciate my ways, grasshopper. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

 

I can’t help but laugh. It’s nice to to be here with someone who wants to share things with me. To be away from our town and the batch of recent bad memories. To just have fun. I look at his smiling face and think about what a good person he is, and I feel an unexpected rush of warmth and happiness to be out with him on a sunny day. I thread my arm through his, and he looks down at me in surprise. I don’t feel embarrassed. I’ll feel better if he has me for added support and the opportunity to lean on me as he walks.

 

But he doesn’t have to know that.

 

 "Lead away,” I tell him.

 

* * *

 

"I'm exhausted," I announce, collapsing into a chair in our favorite diner of choice.

 

Mr. Mellar- _Peeta_ drops into the seat across from me, the relief on his face unmistakable. He even lets out a little sigh of happiness. "Thank God," he says. "I didn't want to be the one to bow out early."

 

"Why didn't you just say something?" I ask, squinting at him. He shrugs his shoulders at my glare and idly flips through a menu. "You should have told me that you’re wilting."

 

Peeta cocks his head and laughs, his white teeth flashing even in our dim corner. Two women at the table adjacent to ours shoot appreciative looks his way, and I shift in annoyance.

 

 "Wilting?" he repeats. "I sound pitiful. I'd prefer..." He takes a moment to think, drumming his fingers on the table. Finally, he gives a self-deprecating shrug and taps his leg. "Well, I guess I'm weak any way you slice it."

 

"You're not," I insist. My words come out a little more forcefully than I intended. "You're a hero." _My hero._

Peeta meets my eyes, and I look back evenly, exerting an unwavering strength behind the force of my stare because he's wearing an expression on his face like he's never received a compliment before. 

 

"Thank you," he says quietly. "But-"

 

“May I take your drink order?" our waitress asks. Her eyes widen when she realizes she interrupted Peeta, a cardinal sin of her craft. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to cut you off."

 

"Oh, no. You're fine." He stops and smiles at the waitress, and I sink back in my seat, only just becoming aware that I had been sitting on the edge of the chair, my back straight as a pin. "I'd like water, please." He closes his menu and hands it to her. "We're actually ready to order our food as well."

 

Peeta rattles off his order and my eyes rove over my menu restlessly. I’ve never been very good in the face of so many options.

 

"And for you?" asks the waitress, her pen poised over her writing pad.

 

“Water.” I waver before speaking again, ignoring Peeta when rolls his eyes with good humor. "And. Um. I think..." I stop and bite my lip. There are so many delicious things to choose from, and I’ve never been accused of not appreciating a meal.

 

"She'll have the lamb stew with caramelized plums," he informs her, leaning back in his chair.

 

"Hey!" I frown at him. "What if that's not what I wanted?"

 

"I apologize," Peeta says, tipping his head. "Continue." 

 

I huff and close the menu with a sticky snap. "The stew," I confirm with starch dignity.

 

Our waitress giggles, clearly amused.  "You two are an adorable couple," she says with a wink. Then she turns around and walks away, completely oblivious to the carnage she is leaving behind.

 

I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of my lungs, and my eyes quickly fly down to my lap. I feel my cheeks burning at her comment, and I wish I could melt into my seat.

 

“Katniss.”

 

I wish for a cup of water to hide behind; perhaps a salad, or an appetizer to fill my mouth so that I won’t have to form words and address the giant elephant stomping through the restaurant. I desperately pray for a distraction, but this isn’t a movie, and I’m all too aware that I can’t just sit here in silence with my hands clenched tightly in my lap while Mr. Mellar- _Peeta_ waits across the table for me to stop pretending that I’m a piece of furniture.

 

I drag my eyes from my hands and meet his steady gaze, and the first thing I notice is that his cheeks are stained a light pink that is probably very similar to my own. That makes it even worse. For him to be embarrassed acknowledges that it’s not just me affected by the casual observance of a stranger. That I’m not just overreacting.

 

I finally drag my eyes forward to meet his. “Yeah?”

 

“It’s okay,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal at all.”

 

“I know,” I say, eternally grateful when the waitress appears with our drinks, and I waste no time sucking back a large gulp of the ice cold water. I wait until she walks away before speaking again. “I was just caught off-guard, is all.”

 

“Me too,” he chuckles, and my lips finally twist into a reluctant smile. “And flattered as hell, honestly. I’m old.”

 

“You’re not old!” I argue, crossing my arms. “You’re barely forty.”

 

“Too old for you,” he says, the smile on his face fading as he realizes what he said. “Someone my age, I mean,” he adds, taking a sip of his water.

 

“Yeah,” I echo, filled with relief when our food is brought to the table a moment later. My lamb stew looks amazing, but my stomach feels as if the bottom has dropped out of it.

 

“Well,” Peeta says, clearing his throat. “Dig in.”

 

We quietly tuck into our meal, and all I can think about is how he can’t meet my eyes.

 

* * *

 

We decide to head back home shortly after our meal, both of us worried about Madge after she stops texting us back.

 

“She’s probably just taking a nap,” Peeta says, but he looks antsy.

 

“Probably,” I say. “But we should go check on her.”

 

He agrees quickly, his relief palpable, and I can’t help but feel a thin thread of hurt, which makes absolutely no sense. Madge is his _daughter_. I’m just her friend. Of course he wants to check on her. It’s surprising that he even left her home alone today just to take me into the city for a birthday trip. And even though he said he needed the trip away, too-- well. I’m not naive enough to think that this wasn’t mostly for my benefit.

 

The train ride back into Twelve Acre is a much more subdued affair than the ride into the city. I don’t dare  fall asleep again this time, though my traitorous eyes keep threatening to fall shut. Peeta tries to maintain a steady conversation, but my replies are short. It’s even more noticeable when we’re back at the train station and in his car, because there are no other passengers to focus on, no other real distractions. There’s just us. The quiet strands of music from the radio fill the air, and I look out the window and try to focus on the green blur of trees as we speed past them.

 

When we pull into the driveway, I practically jump out of the car, barely waiting for him to put it in park before I open the door and head for the house. The front door is locked, and I’m embarrassed when I have to stand and wait for Peeta after sprinting away like a petulant child.

 

He limps next to me and fiddles with his keys before finally shoving one of them into the keyhole. He stops and turns to me before opening the door.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peeta says suddenly.

 

“For what?” I stare at the door knocker.

 

“I feel like I ruined this trip for you. We were having such a good day…” he trails off, tapping his key nervously again the metal of the doorknob. “And then I did something. I made you uncomfortable.” He phrases the last bit almost as a question rather than a statement.

 

“It wasn’t you.” I turn to him. I can’t let him twist in the wind and take responsibility for something he didn’t do. “I blame the waitress,” I joke. I applaud myself when his face relaxes.

 

“We’re not going back there again,” Peeta informs me, opening the door. He stops again. “Katniss…” He looks torn. “Can we not mention what happened to Madge?” He runs a hand down his face. “God, that sounds so sketchy. I-”

 

I put him out of his misery. “Of course,” I say quickly.

 

He hesitates. “She would probably find it funny.”

 

I wonder what Mrs. Mellark would think. It crosses my mind to ask, but then I stop myself. Why would I bring _that_ up?

 

“Probably,” I say instead, shrugging with more nonchalance than I feel. “But it was so unimportant that I really don’t see the need to bring it up.” I smile at him, anxious to put him at ease. I’m suddenly terrified that things between us are going to get weird. I can’t lose him. He’s the only one who understands what I’ve been through. My only chance for a confidante. “Right?”

 

“Right,” he echoes, and opens the door.

 

* * *

 

I toss and turn in the bed, trying hard not to cry.

 

This is one of the worst night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time, and I feel terrible because I’ve woken Madge up at least twice with my whimpers and flailing limbs and lord only knows what else. She’s been so understanding, but when I mentioned going to sleep in the spare bedroom, she only put up a half-hearted fight before quickly dropping back into a deep sleep. She had mostly recovered by the time Peeta and I came back from the city, but she was still exhausted from the hell the food poisoning had put her body through.

 

I sigh and sit up. Part of me wants to be selfish and stay in the safety of my best friend’s bed. The comfort and familiarity of Madge’s presence is hard to give up. I debate only a few more seconds before the more selfless part of me finally wins out, and I find myself standing and quietly slipping out of the door for the second night in a row.

 

The thought of another glass of water motivates me to go downstairs instead of trying to force sleep into my life. I’m definitely not looking for more company. I tell myself this many times as I descend down the stairs, but when I enter the empty kitchen I can’t help the thread of disappointment that stitches itself into the cavity where my heart is supposed to be. I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, not having a reason to linger. I’m just about to go back upstairs when I hear the faint murmur of a television, and I walk into the living room curiously.

 

It’s empty, but the small flight of steps that lead down to the basement level shine with a faint gleam of light that’s made obvious in the pitch blackness of the room. I cock my head.

 

I’m walking before thinking it over, and before I know it, I’m pushing open the cracked door that opens into the bonus room.

 

It’s late as hell and I’ve had a series of traumatic nightmares, which can be one of the only reasons my heart starts to beat furiously in my chest when I see Peeta lounging on the comfortable couch, his barefeet propped on the coffee table and a popular comedy release playing on one of the premium movie channels that I always take advantage of at the Mellark’s.

 

“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. I feel shy even though I just spent the day with him.

 

Peeta turns his head, the movement a little slow and lethargic. His neck is craned awkwardly as he looks at me, and I’m stunned to see that he looks just as exhausted as I feel.

 

“Hey, Katniss.” He smiles at me despite the dullness in his voice. “Can’t sleep?”

 

“Not really.” I stand there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

 

“Come sit down,” he invites me, waving his hand.

 

I move hesitantly at first, but the couch looks so comfortable that I pick up my feet until I drop down next to him. There’s at least two feet of space between us. Somehow it feels like not enough and too much all at once.

 

We watch the movie mostly in silence, and even though I feel absolutely dead inside from sheer exhaustion, my eyes stay peeled open, dry as sand but held open by invisible flypaper.

 

“I can’t, either,” he finally says, his words so quiet that I almost miss them. “Sleep, I mean.”

 

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

 

He nods. “Ever since the robbery, my nightmares are-- well.” He gives a humorless laugh. “Hellish is the word.”

 

The relief I feel at this is immense. The guilt follows soon after, because how can find satisfaction in this mutual misery? But _god_. It feels good to not be alone in this.

 

“Same here.” I’m practically tripping over myself. “The nightmares are horrible. I keep seeing Thresh, over and over again. Giant knives fall from the sky. Rivers of blood. You…” I stop and look away.

 

He looks at me solemnly, and-- I honestly don’t know who initiated it first, but suddenly my hand is in his. The space between us is bridged. And somehow our fingers are interlocking, our hands fitting together in a tight grip like puzzle pieces, and it feels so much like a lifeline that I never want to let go.

 

“I understand,” Peeta says, squeezing my hand. “God, so much. That’s why I’m down here now.” He inclines his head toward the ceiling. “So I don’t wake anyone up. Delly sleeps like the dead, but Madge is a little more of a light sleeper.”

 

We sit in silence, and my head lolls back against the couch. My forehead is grazing Peeta’s shoulder, but I don’t care. My eyes are dropping, and I’m in that twilight space between sleep and consciousness when I hear something that has me jerking upright into full red alert.

 

“ _Oh! Oh! Oh!”_

 

“ _Yeah baby, yeah, yeah, fuck me. Fuck me.”_

I look over and see Peeta blinking sleepily, his cheeks bright red as he fumbles with the remote. We both must have drifted off, and in the meantime the harmless movie we were watching segued into typical late-night soft porn. My blurry eyes are transfixed on the bottle-blonde bouncing in the lap of a dimestore D-list actor in a cheap Skinemax movie until the image suddenly fades to black. Peeta curses softly as he finally manages to turn off the television, but the damage is done.

 

“I- uh,” I stutter, rubbing at my forehead as I stumble to my feet, off-kilter and beyond embarrassed. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” I realize I’m babbling, and even worse, my voice is cracking with a mix of exhaustion and panic. I feel out of control and so, so ridiculous by my reaction.

 

Peeta just stares anywhere but at me, a look of helplessness on his face as I back away. “Katniss-”

 

“Good night,” I mumble, and disappear upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta nonemoreblack. All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> I did some research beforehand, but I apologize for any inaccuracies about DC. Writer's liberties and all that.
> 
> Molly, thanks for the advice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I hope this chapter is worth the long break.

_What was that?_

 

Like a news ticker streaming across the television after a politician gets caught with his mistress, my brain is making damn certain that I’m in a constant state of terrible awareness of the mess that is my life now. There’s just one series of disasters after another that I can’t hide from, replaying in technicolor from start to finish, morning to night.

 

_Why me?_ I tap my foot on the floor reflexively. _Snap_ goes the hair tie on my wrist.  _What the hell?_

 

A few nights ago, I slept on the couch with my best friend's dad. And things got a little uncomfortable. Not a big deal. Not news worthy. Except it was the best few hours of sleep I've had in weeks, and the guilty feeling still thrumming inside me is leading to terrifying conclusions about feelings that shouldn't exist. That _wouldn't_ exist if a band of assholes hadn't stepped into my life and ruined it that day at The Hob.

 

My leg jogs up and down, and I question if this is what restless leg syndrome feels like, or maybe even a panic attack because my chest hurts, my fingers tingle and I swear if Madge gives me that concerned best friend stare one more time I'm going to lose it completely. I’ll have a fit right here among the 'Hang in There!' posters of kittens hanging from tree limbs and the sleepy-eyed stares of my peers.

 

"You all right?" Her blonde ponytail bobs with the question, her chin tipping to the side as she regards me with serious blue eyes.

 

The smile I flash at her is painfully insincere, so brittle it could shatter and fall off, leaving me a lipless mess of exposed nerves. "Right as rain."

 

"Hmm." She eyes me but chills out on the questions, a reprieve for which I am extremely grateful.

 

The unsettled rolling of my stomach only increases when class ends. I part ways with Madge and move down the hall, my feet doing the thinking for me. The acidic wave of nausea grows to a tidal pitch when I pass a locker covered in photos, pictures, and flowers that drop wilting petals onto the linoleum floor.

 

_We miss you, Thresh!_ Sad face. Red heart. Names, names, names scrawled in washable ink, because in a few months this will be a tragic memory; in a few years, just a sad afterthought, and the fresh-faced dewy-eyed kid who gets stuck with the locker isn't going to be keen on a permanent reminder that his school books and sweaty gym shorts are being stuffed into something once owned by the dead guy who was shot down in the local drugstore.

 

Someone slams a door and a book falls with a hard _smack._ My eye starts to throb in a steady twitch. My breathing shallows, and the crowd moving through the hall to get to last period have to swerve around me while my feet are glued to the floor. I struggle to move to the side and collapse against a locker, trying to play it cool. Like I'm supposed to be propped up there.

 

"Hey, Katniss." The voice sounds distorted, like I'm in a bottle and he’s speaking into it above me.

 

I blink.

 

The boy in front of me smiles. Am I smiling back? My cheeks are frozen and numb.

 

He leans against the locker beside me, going for casual but instead he just looks stiff. I can't imagine I look any better.

 

"Hi." My lips barely form the word.

 

"You doing okay?"

 

The amount of times I've been asked this question are innumerable. The sincerity, however, is almost always questionable, especially here at school. No one in high school cares about your inner pain, the mental scarring. They want the gossip. They want dirt.

 

"Yeah." I snap the elastic band on my wrist and exhale discreetly. "I'm great. Truly fantastic."

 

"Really?"

 

His smile falters and he straightens, rocking back on his heels when I just stare at him in response. He crosses his arms.

 

I break. "Sure, guy. I'm fine."’

 

"Do you even know my name?" He probably means for the question to come out teasing and lighthearted, but the twist of his face screams disappointment.

 

"Sure." For fun, I pretend like I'm racking my brain. Like we haven't been thrown together in the same classes since preschool and I didn't witness the spectacular birth of his secret nickname, One-Nut Nick, when a stray baseball put him out of commission in ninth grade gym class. I snap and point at him. "Gloss."

 

"Last name."

 

"What?" I push away from the locker and start to walk, finally feeling as if my bearings are coming back.

 

"That's my last name," he clarifies, falling into step beside me. "Nick Gloss."

 

"Okay."

 

"You're a mysterious one, aren't you?"

 

I stop abruptly. "No mystery. I'm just a girl." The last thing in the world I need is some dumb jock killing himself trying to figure me out.

 

Nick puts a hand on my arm and a few girls from the cheerleading team give us the eye as they walk by. There are no catty comments or even dirty looks. They wouldn't dare, because right now I'm _that girl_. The wounded one. I hate it.

 

_Curse me out_ , I think. _Come claim your football God._

 

They don't. One of the cheerleaders, a really snotty one that's hated me since kindergarten, actually shoots a smile at me, a soft, sympathetic one that sends me reeling with resentment. The world is ending. Glimmer Paladino trills a finger wave at me and I look around, waiting for a bucket of pig's blood to splash down on me from above.

 

"Katniss?" The snapping of his fingers is enough to weave a thread of very real dislike down my spine.

 

" _What_?"  

 

Nick holds up his hands in surrender. "I was just asking— you know. If you want to get together sometime?” He scratches his jaw and ruffles his dark blond hair, his eyes dropping to the scar on my neck before sliding to the left. It reminds me of sixth grade, when he gave a book report on _Huckleberry Finn_ and rocked back and forth on his heels the whole time, mumbling at a NASCAR pace and stuttering over every word. I had felt really sorry for him until after school. Nick and his friends jumped a kid that dared to tease him, breaking his arm in two places. The kid never came back after that. “Maybe you want to talk—"

 

I stare at him in stunned disbelief. "Why in the world would I want to talk to you? I'm pretty sure you haven't spoken to me in years."

 

His tanned face burns, and I almost feel guilty until he opens his mouth. "You don't have to be such a bitch about it. I feel sorry for you, is all."

 

This actually makes me laugh aloud. "Consider yourself off the hook." I pick up my pace and adjust my satchel, leaving Nick in my dusty trail. "Don't go losing any brain cells on my account."

 

The hall is mostly deserted, putting dreams in my head about breaking out. I pause at my classroom before speeding past it, making a hard left toward a stairwell that has an unguarded door leading out into the parking lot. If I haul ass, I can make my way to freedom and miss the resource officer who normally patrols the parking lot. I don't even care that my mom will get a call about my truancy. I just need to be gone.

 

_Now_.

 

It's a nice day out. The birds chirp and the sun peeks through the wind-whipped tree branches. It's a day a girl like me would typically enjoy, but all I can focus on is making it to the park bench a few blocks away from the school. When I finally get there, I thank the higher powers above that it's free of shady people.

 

I have a hard time fishing my phone from my bag due to treacherous, shaking hands. Then I stop pand consider. Who to call for comfort? My mom is at work, and though I know she'd answer, there are times lately when I catch her staring at me with an expression that looks like she'd love nothing more than for me to snap out of my funk. Gale, my only real friend other than Madge, is busy in college right now.

 

I shoot a quick text to Madge.

 

_{Hey. I skipped out}_

 

**madge 2:15 PM** : You need me? I’ll be there

 

I tap out a reluctant response.

 

_{No. Just being a baby}_

 

**madge 2:16 PM** : Go to my house and wait for me? Dad's home early

**madge 2:16 PM** : You know he'd love to hang out. Maybe...talk to him

 

I suck my teeth. I can’t avoid Mr. Mellark. It would be beyond ridiculous. I know full well that neither of us were at fault for the strangeness between us the other night. And I can't help but remember how nice it was to be next to him, warm and safe.

 

Until that peace was shattered by sexual awareness after softcore porn started playing on television.

 

“Shit,” I say to the sky, dropping my head back to rest uncomfortably against the bench. It’s still so damn embarrassing to think about.

 

I wish I could go back in time and react differently. Why did I have to run away like a freak? It made me seem guilty. Like I had something to hide.

 

Nick was right about one thing. I do need to talk. Just not to him.

 

I need Mr. Mella- no. _Peeta_.

 

**madge 2:20 PM** : Kat?

 

_{Yeah. I’ll be at your house}_

 

* * *

 

I knock because it's what I always do. We may have been poor, but my parents raised me with impeccable manners. No matter how well you know someone, always call before arriving at someone's house, and for god's sake, knock before entering.

 

I'm mad at myself for breaking one of those rules. Too cowardly to call ahead, I stand on the wraparound wooden porch and wonder how Mr. Mellark will greet me. Will it be with trepidation in his eyes? Hurt and disappointment? Or maybe things will be completely normal and I'm in overreaction mode. I'm so lame for pulling a runner. It's a crappy thing to do to someone who's been like a second father, and more importantly, a good friend. A fellow survivor.  

 

The front door pushes open, but it's not him that greets me.

 

"Hi there, Katniss," Madge's mom says with a tired smile.

 

She's still wearing a nightgown despite it being well into the afternoon. Her once vibrant Miss Teen Panem face is pale and lined. I've seen the pictures, the sashes, the wands, the tiaras. When we were younger, Madge used to drag out the remnants of her mother's pageant years and mock them. There's something so sad about trinkets of former beauty. At times, I think I can still see that lovely girl inside of the weathered woman in front of me, but now isn't one of those moments.

 

"Hey, Mrs. Mellark," I greet her.

 

I shuffle awkwardly on my feet and look somewhere in between her red-rimmed blue eyes. I've never felt truly comfortable with Madge's mom, and not just because of her...problem. She lacks the natural warmth that Peeta has, and despite the fact that she's never been anything but nice to me, I can feel the barrier between us that smacks of my lack of wealth and social graces.

 

I'm a bad person, because deep within the dark recesses of me, I can't help but snidely wonder where her social graces are when she's slipping through the house, stark raving drunk and so, so sloppy.

 

"I apologize for my appearance," the older woman says with a self-conscious laugh. "I have a migraine today."

 

"You look great," I lie. _Snap_ goes the hair tie on my wrist.

 

"You're so sweet," she says, blushing with so much pleasure that I wonder when Madge last complimented her. She reaches out and touches my braid. "I'm sorry, honey. Come on in." She holds the door open and steps aside, wobbling a little on her feet. "Of course, you know Madge isn't home...." Mrs. Mellark trails off, checking her wrist for a non-existent watch. A faint line appears between her eyebrows. "She's still at school."

 

"I know." I shrug my satchel off my shoulder and toe off my shoes. "I left early."

 

She nods, unconcerned that she's harboring a truant in her house. "Can't say that I blame you. I always hated school." She reaches for my bag. "How about if I take that upstairs for you? I'll put it in Madge's room. I'm just going to lie down for a bit."

 

"Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Mellark."

 

"Make yourself at home. Peeta is in the kitchen. I'm sure he'd love nothing more than someone's ear to talk off," she adds with a little dismissive laugh.

 

I watch as she slowly makes her way up the steps, her hand squeezing the railing with force. Once I'm certain she's not going to tumble to her death, I follow the scent of something delicious in the air.

 

Peeta has his back to me, his hand busily whisking something in a pot. There's the familiar, soothing sounds of an indie rock band playing in the cheery kitchen, and like a true creeper, I just watch him as he thrives in his element, unaware of my presence. He's entirely in the zone, chopping up some herbs with the precision of a master and humming to himself, off-tune and adorabl- _no_. No.

 

"Hi," I say, clearing my throat.

 

He turns around in surprise. "Katniss!" he says, a genuine smile of happiness unfurling at the sight of me. My hand raises to my stomach, a quick pinprick of discomfort whirling in my abdomen.

 

"Surprise." I throw back a big, cheesy grin that smacks of overcompensation.

 

"A good surprise." He carefully lays his knife down and opens the refrigerator, handing me a bottle of my favorite mineral water.  

 

I breathe in the warm, toasty smell of baking bread and something garlicky simmering on the stove. Tension exits my body with every inhalation of the familiar scents.

 

"Wait." I take the bottle from him and tilt my head hopefully. "Lasagna?"

 

"Will be," Peeta confirms. “And homemade bread.” Before I can blink, he's holding a wooden spoon up to my mouth. "Taste. I'm not certain about the sauce."

 

"Oh god." My eyelashes flutter and I groan. He looks away for a moment, and I realize he’s probably waiting for feedback. "That is...I have no words. Adopt me?"

 

"I thought I already did," he teases, and I want to cry because it's so normal. So good.

 

"I wish." The words balloon out of my mouth, a gum bubble I want to pop.

 

The laugh lines around his eyes flatten as the amusement dies on his face. Peeta places the spoon back on the holder on the stove and leans back against the counter, his hands bearing the weight on the marble edge as he meets my eyes.

 

"Everything okay at home?"

 

"Yeah." I avoid his searching look and tap my nails on the tabletop, focusing on my fingers sliding against the cross-hatch pattern of the wood. "Same as always."

 

"You and your mom. You getting along all right?"

 

"Same," I reiterate, lifting a shoulder.

 

Peeta nods slowly. "I just thought-" He stops. "With what happened..." He absently rubs the thigh of his wounded leg and looks over my shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed.

 

"That she'd magically turn into Mother of the Year?" I laugh, jaded and cutting as glass. "Bake homemade cookies and tuck me in at night?"

 

"No." He shakes his head and his eyes sharpen. "Be more attentive, I suppose."

 

"Not all parents can be you, I _suppose_."   

 

"Katniss, you put me on a pedestal," he says, sighing. I don't like his reproachful gaze. "Madge's mom and I make mistakes, too."

 

"Mrs. Mellark does." I feel a moment's guilt, like I'm throwing his wife under the bus. "You don't."

 

"Believe me. Parenting is hard."

 

"‘Parenting is hard’," I mock, trying to lighten the mood. I take a dish towel hanging from the handle of a cabinet and whip it at him like we're in the locker room. He leans back on his elbows in surprise. I catch him in his stomach with my impeccable aim and try not to to notice that when he sucks in to escape the towel, his abdomen flattens and defines with muscle underneath his white tee. "Crochet that onto a pillow for me, okay? I want to give it to my mom for Christmas."

 

"Lord, you are a brat." He chuckles and turns away, taking the lid off of a pot and peering inside before closing it again.

 

"Hey," I blurt out. He turns to me, eyebrows raised. "Um. About the other night."

 

His eyelashes flutter and he holds up a finger. "Hold that thought."

 

Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I watch as Peeta pulls a pint of milk and a pan from the refrigerator. Next come two white plates, the nice, sturdy china type, not the paper variety that's popular at the Everdeen household. Two thick slices of apple pie are divided onto the plates, the glasses are topped with milk as the desserts are warmed in the microwave, and then we're sitting down at the table together, eating mouthfuls of flaky, apple pastry.

 

"So," he says, his mouth full. A sugar crystal clings to the top of his lip. It looks like an edible sparkle. “I thought this talk would be easier with pie.”

 

“Because we can’t really talk?” I say thickly, taking a sip of milk.

 

He swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Maybe,” he says, flashing me an embarrassed smile before looking away. “See, I do screw up sometimes.”

 

“You didn’t, though.” I lay my fork down. “I was dumb. I ran away...and. I don’t even know why.”

 

“I do.” Peeta runs a hand through his hair before making eye contact again. “It was an awkward and inappropriate situation for you to be in. I want you to know, I didn’t put that movie on-”

 

“I know, geez,” I reply, crossing my arms. “We fell asleep and it was just the next thing that came on. Don’t get all formal on me, please? I just need to talk about this with you as a friend. Not, you know, my friend’s dad.”  

 

“All right.” His lips quirk at this before exhaling. “So. It was weird, right?”

 

“So weird,” I say in a rush, sitting up straighter. “But I don’t want to stop, I need…”

 

“You want to still hang out at night,” he finishes, pushing a piece of pie around his plate, chasing it with the tines of his fork. “When you can’t sleep.”

 

“Yes.” I wait.

 

“Katniss…” He looks up, his expression conflicted.

 

“Please, Peeta.” I mash my lips together before speaking again. “You’re the only one who gets it. And I sleep...I _sleep_ when I’m with you. Even if it’s just a little while.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment. “I know.”

 

“I like being around you.” I’m on a roll.

 

Troubled is the only way to describe his face. "I like being around you, too. You know that you're welcome here any night." _With Madge_ is the unspoken end to his sentence. "We're speaking as friends, Katniss. But as your friend and a responsible adult, I have to say this puts me in a strange spot."

 

"It doesn't have to be strange. And if it makes it better” —my thoughts shuffle quickly, desperate to find the right words to convince him— "we can be secret friends."    

 

He scoops another piece of pie into his mouth. "That's worse," Peeta says a few seconds later, matter of fact. Careful.

 

"How?"

 

He pushes his plate away. "Because then it seems like we're hiding something." Exasperation coats his words, like I'm being willfully dense.   

 

"We are," I say. "But only the sleeping together part."

 

"You're giving me grey hair, kid."

 

Peeta looks so alarmed by my words that I immediately backtrack. "That's not what I meant," I add loudly, almost choking on my pie. _Jesus._

 

"Of course not," he agrees, running his fingers through his hair. "But you're proving my point."

 

"Look." I let my fork clatter to the plate. "You're one of the only people in the _world_ who understands what I'm going through. The only person I want to discuss...The Incident with. Not my mom, therapists." I pause. "Madge. I can't talk to them. The flashbacks, the nightmares." I hate to even speak the next words for fear of invoking them. "The panic attacks." I clutch the edge of the table and rock back precariously on the legs of the chair, and Peeta shoots out a hand and drags me back onto solid ground. My breath evens out and I squeeze my eyes closed before opening them again. "I know you feel the same way."

 

"I'm coping."

 

"Yeah? How's therapy?" I ask, knowing full well from Madge that he hasn't been going.  Peeta raises an eyebrow at my snarky tone. His warning look makes me feel about two inches tall. "Sorry."

 

"It's fine, smart ass." He exhales softly, crossing his arms. His eyes are thoughtful as he stares at the ceiling, and they look even more blue when contrasted with the purple streaks of exhaustion under them. I can see the exact moment when he caves. "All right. But we have to tread lightly. Needless to say, Delly wouldn't understand. And god knows, your mother wouldn't either."

 

"I know." I nod eagerly, sitting forward. "Mum's the word. It's just sleep."

 

Peeta rubs his face, and it strikes me again how tired he looks. I think I see relief flash across his face, mixed with hesitance and resignation. "Just sleep."

 

* * *

 

We drop the subject, but I already feel ten times better knowing I might get a few hours of rest tonight. The mood is light when I finish helping him with dinner. I crinkle my nose but still sing along when he changes the music to eighties rock, and Peeta pretends like I'm doing him a huge favor by slicing the bread into little squares. By the time Madge comes bouncing in after Model UN practice, we're laughing over the misshapen lump of french bread I roughed up with my inexpert knife skills.

 

"Katniss!" Madge says, wrapping her arms around me. "I was worried about you."

 

"I'm good," I say, and for once I mean it.

 

"You're smiling. Like, _really_ smiling."

 

"Hey." I touch my lips. "I smile."

 

"Not like that." She pokes the corner of my mouth teasingly. "Skipping class is a good look for you."

 

She's so happy and carefree after seeing her father and best friend functioning in a normal way that Peeta and I share a look over her head. She can't ever know how screwed up we truly are.

 

* * *

 

"When does your mom eat?" I ask, sitting on the bed and watching while Madge stands in front of her full-length mirror.

 

"Huh?" She eyes herself critically and smooths the material of her skirt down her hips. "Does this look terrible with my top?"

 

"No- it looks good. But I never see your mom eat, you know? I can't remember the last time she had dinner with us."

 

"Oh," she says with a dismissive wave of her wrist. She pulls her top off and turns to rifle through her closet. "She sneaks down mid-binge and nibbles on stuff. Like a rat."

 

"Madge."

 

"What?" She looks at me over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes innocently.

 

I laugh because it seems like the correct response. "You're terrible," I say, shaking my head.

 

"No. _She's_ the worst." She pulls another top out of the closet and turns to face me. "You know how some people are terrified that their parents will get divorced? I actively wish for it." Her words are muffled and unforgiving as she pulls the shirt over head. "The only reason Dad hangs in there is because of some misguided belief that it's what's best for me. And, you know, Mom would probably drown in her own vomit without us turning her on her side every so often."

 

This is the first time in a long while Madge has spoken so openly about her mom's addiction, and I'm at a loss for what to say as I stare at her. I struggle to find the words to comfort her like she does so easily for me, but instead I'm a waste of space with a gaping mouth as she shrugs a shoulder at me.

 

"I'm sorry." It's a useless and ineffectual response, but it's all I have. I feel like such a hypocrite after suppressing dozens of eye rolls at this exact throwaway comment since The Incident.  

 

"Don't be." She throws a jean skirt my way. It's shorter than anything in my entire wardrobe. "Put that on."

 

"Um." I flick at it, disdainful. "Why?"

 

“Because we’re gonna go out for awhile.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “To Sae’s.”

 

"Heck no. I'm not going."

 

"Uh, yeah. You are."

 

"It's a week night."

 

The look she aims at my flimsy excuse is so incredulous that I sigh and give in. I stand and pull off my jeans, quickly trading them out for the skirt. "All right. Like, one hour."

 

"No one hangs out at Sae's for just an hour," she pleads. "Two. And if you're really, really hating it, just text me and I swear we'll leave. Just give it a chance. It'll be good for you to get out."

 

I don't necessarily agree with this, but I owe Madge a night of regular teen activities. She's put up with my moods for far too long. More than that, she's started talking to Darius Jones, a varsity baseball player who's actually a super nice guy. He's the closest thing Madge has ever had to a boyfriend, and I know it hurts her feelings that I haven't spent any time getting to know him.

 

"Please," she says, sitting on the bed beside me. She lays her head on my shoulder. "I need the support."

 

It's unfortunate that nice-as-pie-Darius comes with the burden of unlikable friends. Madge isn't quite as reserved as me, but she's always battled a case of shyness. It doesn't help that Darius' ex-girlfriend, Lavinia, hates Madge with the very fiber of her soul and is likely to be there as well.

 

"I've got your back," I say.

 

* * *

 

Sae's is a greasy spoon diner on my side of town. It's where generations of upper crust Twelve Acre kids hang out ironically, paying two bucks for nachos while wearing thousand dollar shoes. But give the rich darlings twenty years, and much like the parents before them, I guarantee they'll be banning their own offspring from darkening its doorstep, too good for the nicotine-stained walls, oily booths with torn vinyl covers, and a jukebox that hasn't seen new music since the Reagan administration.

 

The place is so busy that we have to park around back in a slice of land that's not quite a parking lot, but not quite a field either. I step around a pothole that would break a less aware person's ankle and stretch my arms toward the darkening sky. I twist and narrow my eyes. Madge catches my ominous stare aimed at the the back of the diner and thumps me on the back.

 

"Fun," she mouths, but I notice she doesn't look particularly stoked either.

 

The fact of the matter is we're both introverts. This is going against the grain of everything we are, but if Madge wants to impress her new boy, I'm going to do all I can to support her. She's the best friend I've ever had, and I want nothing more than to give her normalcy.

 

And if I'm being honest with myself, I guess I want a taste of that, too.

 

I just wish it wasn't at Sae's Diner.

 

"Can't we just go to a baseball game or something?" I grumble, allowing Madge to drag me by my arm down the alley beside the diner. I kick a soda can out of my way and frown. As much as I hate sports, a hotdog with relish and an anonymous seat in the nosebleed section of the bleachers actually sounds great right about now.

 

“Oh, you’ll be doing that too.” She sounds so cheerful about it I could strangle her.

 

I stop as we approach the corner of the diner and stare off at the trimmed field across the road, focusing on what was once a gas station but now serves to be one of those vaguely creepy, abandoned buildings that would make a perfect backdrop for a dated postcard colored in sepia tones with vintage fonts.

 

Madge turns and faces me. "What's wrong?"

 

"Just wondering if anyone will notice me over there."

 

"Where?" She looks mystified, and with good reason. Sae's is a squat, faded turquoise affair with a tin roof, plopped between an old Baptist church and an auto-repair shop about half a mile down the highway. Trailers and dilapidated homes dot the landscape until eventually filtering into the more picturesque city limits of Twelve Acre.

 

Not exactly many places to hide.

 

When she cranes her neck and follows my line of sight to the gas station, she sends me a sideways look and kicks the front of my converse. "Jesus. Come on." I reluctantly follow her around the corner, and she smiles at me a little slyly, pausing before opening the diner door. "Even if you do make a run for it, I know at least one person who would chase after you."

 

I know she meant it as a joke, but I still stiffen at the words. Just the thought of someone cornering me and keeping me prisoner makes me suck in a sharp breath and clutch at my stomach.

 

Madge instantly turns contrite. "I'm so sorry," she says. "I swear- Katniss, I didn't mean it like that."

 

I’m mortified. "I know- stop wringing your hands. Madge, I _know_." My voice is sharp with the desire to mitigate my reaction. _Don't be a sensitive freak_.

 

"I just meant" —she flicks her fingers and looks down at me in misery— "Darius told me Nick has been asking about you, and-"

 

"Wait." I blink at her. "Nick Gloss?"

 

Madge at least has the nerve to look sheepish. She runs a nervous finger across the window and her fingernail catches in the peeling paint scrawled across the glass, forever marring the 'e' in _Sae's_. "Nick’s actually not _so_ bad. When you were out of school, I ate lunch with Darius and his friends a few times. Really, Katniss. He’s-"

 

"Hold up. I'm totally confused." My hand balls into a fist. "Is this a set-up? Am I walking into a...Jesus, Madge. If this is some misguided attempt at a blind date, I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”  

 

"No, no." She rushes to reassure me, but I'm already walking backward.

 

"Because that guy was a total jerk to me today. I told you that on the way here." Shards of betrayal cut at me. It had felt so good to unload on Madge and have something to offer in the way of girl talk. She had nodded at all the right places and growled in my defense. And the entire time, she was driving me to meet up with Nick.

 

"He felt really bad about it. I think- maybe he's just _intimidated_ by you, you know?"

 

"Are you kidding me right now?" I glare at her. "You already knew the whole story? And you still dragged me here? That's so low."

 

"Is it low to want my best friend with me?" she explodes, stomping her foot. "Okay, Nick Gloss was a tool to you. But I know for a fact that he likes you. And yeah, you don't like him, but I just- _god,_ I want you to hang out with me and Darius and- I need a friend." She blows away a strand of hair that came loose from her ponytail and rolls her eyes heavenward. "I knew you wouldn't come if I told you." She stills and drops her head. "Okay. I know how selfish I sound."

 

Laughter echoes from the alley and we go silent. Moments later, a few people I recognize from school send curious glances our way before brushing by us into the diner.

 

"You're not selfish," I say. "Just— no more surprises, okay? I can't deal with that."

 

"Agreed," she replies eagerly, giving me a quick hug. "I'm sorry. I knew better."

 

“You really did.” I sigh and reach around her to open the door. “I get bonus points for this. Add them to my friend card.”

 

“Consider the card punched,” she says, walking in behind me.

 

An old classic rock song is secondary to the dull roar of conversation. Dozens of familiar faces are crammed into every available space. Groups of people are crowded into booths well beyond maximum capacity. They fill the seats of the swivel stools lined up at a long counter toward the front of the room and sit in backward chairs at the ancient, pockmarked wooden tables dotting the middle of the diner. Those who don’t have the clout to command a table or booth stand on the fringe, left to awkwardly press a hip against an available surface while nodding eagerly at whichever member of small-town teen royalty is holding court.

 

Madge raises her hand into a wave and nudges me. “There he is.”

 

I squint my eyes toward the back of the dim room and see Darius waving us over to his corner booth. He’s not alone. There’s Nick, who lifts a chin at me, his lips curling up at the corners like we have a secret to share. I cut my eyes at Madge and she grimaces.

 

The only reason I don’t give her hell is because Lavinia Lewis is pressed into the booth as well, wedged between Brutus McElveen and Cashmere, Nick’s twin sister. Fucking great.

 

“Lavinia looks like she wants to kill me,” Madge says into my ear as we wind our way through the tables.

 

“Yeah? Sorry if I don’t have any sympathy,” I murmur back. “Cashmere is giving me death-ray eyes.”

 

“You mean your new sister-in-law?” she jokes, yelping when I discreetly slam an elbow into her side. “Too soon?”  

 

I press my lips together as we approach the booth. Someone pushes a chair back in front of me and I stumble a little. Nick half-rises out of his seat and leans forward on his hands, his classically handsome face twisting into a menacing scowl.

 

“Hey, fucker!” His voice booms across the diner. He pauses and points at the unfortunate guy, who has turned bright red amongst the jeers and mocking chatter. “Watch what the hell you’re doing or I’ll break your face.”

 

“It’s fine,” I mutter to the terrified kid, patting him on the arm and suppressing the urge to curse out everyone in the room. “Seriously.”  

 

Nick lowers himself back down and smiles at me like he did me the world’s biggest favor. Everyone in the booth but Darius looks completely unmoved, like it’s an everyday occurrence for their friend to threaten another person.

 

Madge’s eyes are wide as she slides into the space that Darius has made for her, looking up at me apologetically when Nick pats the spot next to him. I seriously consider walking out, but one look at Madge’s pleading face has me dropping into the booth, one leg pressed against Nick’s. I grit my teeth and prepare to suffer.

 

* * *

 

“That wasn’t too bad.” She taps her fingers on the steering wheel and shoots a hopeful smile my way. “Right?”

 

“Yeah.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “I could have been having major surgery, so we’ll consider this a win.”

 

“Katniss.” Madge groans and drops her head back against the driver’s seat. “Everyone was nice to us, at least.”

 

I stare at her incredulously. “Were we in the same place? Lavinia made nasty digs at you all night.”

 

“Did she?” She hums and checks her phone, her face brightening at whatever the text message says. Her expression is dreamy as she types back a response. “I didn’t notice.”

 

“You wouldn’t have,” I grumble. Madge and Darius spent the past two hours whispering to each other, even going so far as to sneak in a few kisses amid their soft words.

 

Meanwhile, I was left to make awkward small talk with the rest of the group, almost all of which revolved around -surprise, surprise- the attack at The Hob.

 

_You got stabbed, right?_

 

_I saw a picture of one of the guys. He was actually pretty hot._

 

_So, did you, like, see Thresh die?_

 

I was actually relieved when Nick asked if I would share an order of fries. It gave me something to do with my mouth other than avoid painful conversation. Unfortunately, agreeing to eat from the same plate seemed to be tantamount to accepting a promise ring from him. When Madge finally gave me the _we can leave now_ stare, Nick grabbed my hand and asked for my number.

 

Caught off guard, I had jerked my hand away and stuttered out the digits, ignoring the pleased nudge Darius gave Madge and the knowing, cold stare of Nick’s sister.

 

“You and Cashmere seemed to get along okay,” Madge finally says, locking her phone and shoving it into her purse. “She talked to you a lot.”

 

“Uh. More like she was grilling me.”

 

“Cashmere and Nick are close,” she points out, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “I’m sure she knows he likes you- sorry! Stop giving me that look. He does.”

 

“Weirdly close,” I say, ignoring the last part of her sentence. “She’s super protective of him. Even though he’s, you know, a giant with hammer-sized fists and a terrible attitude.”

 

“Aww,” Madge says, opening the car door. “He was sweet to you tonight. And you gave him your number.”

 

“What else was I supposed to do?” I snap, following her out of the car.

 

“But Nick’s definitely gonna text you now,” she says, her singsong words accented by the crunch of gravel under our feet.

 

“What a waste of my minutes.”

 

“Maybe we can double date.” Though her small smirk lets me know she’s joking, I can’t help but be filled with annoyance. She’s not taking me seriously at all. But when she laughs and throws an arm around my shoulder when we walk up her driveway, I refrain from a litany of biting comments. I don’t want to be the person to rain down on her good mood.

 

My best friend is just so blissfully _happy._ And I’m jealous, a black, disgusting emotion that I don’t want to entertain. So I’ll swallow my feelings and let Madge have her moment. I’ll be the supportive friend she needs.

 

Even if it means tolerating people I can’t stand.

 

* * *

 

I wait for Madge’s soft, even breathing before slipping out of her bedroom and down the stairs.

 

Both the den and the living room are dark with no signs of life. I swing by the kitchen and grab a bottle of water, washing down the tiny butterflies that have taken flight in my stomach.

 

I poke my belly button. “Stop being dumb,” I mutter, taking another long sip.

 

It’s stupid to feel this way. I'm just going to hang out with my _friend_. No need to be nervous.

 

I smile a little when I see the door has been propped open as if it's an invitation to accept. Pulling the door knob so that it latches firmly behind me, I make the short descent down into the basement. I snap the light switch on and off in rapid succession to announce my presence. I'm feeling playful, my mood brightening just a bit more with every step.  

 

Peeta cranes his neck to look at me, one arm slung along the back of the couch.

 

"I was just about to give up on you," he says. The flicker of the television casts moving shadows onto his light hair. He closes a sketchbook that was perched on his lap and tosses it onto the coffee table along with a pen, the fancy kind with good ink.

 

"Madge took forever to fall asleep." I drop down next to him and release a long-suffering sigh. "I'm exhausted."

 

"You had a long day."

 

"You don't know the half of it."

 

He turns to face me. "So tell me about it," Peeta says easily. He holds his hand out, like my problems are something I can drop into it. I slap a low five onto his waiting palm instead. My fingers curl loosely around his before he pulls away, clearing his throat. "Tell me about your cruddy day and why you came home early. I know there's a story there."

 

"Deal." I tilt my head. "But you have to tell me about yours, too."

 

He blinks, caught off guard. Like no one asks him about his day. "I'm a boring adult. I went to work and then left early for physical therapy."

 

"No one bothered you?"

 

"How do you mean?"

 

I settle back against the couch, the leather squeaking beneath me. "I just find it hard to believe you walk around all day without someone aggravating you. That there's no one you want to vent about."

 

Peeta laughs. "Maybe I'm more tolerant than you, Katniss."

 

"That's true." _Can't argue with that_. "But no one-" I pause. "They don't ask you about..."

 

Understanding dawns on his face.

 

"At first," he says, his voice soft. "But it's died down considerably." Blue eyes regard me with concern. "I take it that's not the case for you."

 

"It's high school." I lift a shoulder. "What do you think?"

 

"I think I'm old and probably can't begin to imagine how difficult it's been for you."

 

"You're not old. But yeah, it's just- just an adjustment. You know?" I touch the scar on my neck absently. "People who've never talked to me before are all up in my face now. But it’s bullshit.” He nods with encouragement when I stop speaking. “Everyone just wants the dirty details about the The Incident. Or they feel sorry for me. Girls who wouldn't have spit on me if I were on fire look at me like I'm a puppy to take home." I scowl. "It makes me want to bite someone."

 

"Settle down, killer." He pats my head, looking equal parts sympathetic and amused.   

 

"That's not even the worst part." I'm getting worked up now, my hands gesturing wildly with every word.

 

"What's the worst part, Katniss?" he asks, solemn.

 

"The _guys_."

 

He rubs his jaw, his smile evening at the corners. "Guys?"

 

"Well. One guy in particular," I amend, crossing my arms. "Nick Gloss."

 

"Ah. I’m familiar with his dad."

 

"Who isn’t?" Nick's father is a politician who's famous for his conservative views. "That doesn't automatically make him a good person."

 

“Believe me, Katniss. I know.” Peeta taps my nose, gently chastising my defensive tone. "I'd actually argue the opposite, knowing his father."

 

I lean forward, my hands braced on my knees. _Interesting._ "You don't like his dad?"

 

"I went to school with him," he reveals, eyebrows furrowed together. "He was...much like he is now."

 

"Very diplomatic of you."

 

"I try." He drums his fingers on the couch cushion. "So, this boy is bothering you?"

 

"Well.” I frown deeply at the ceiling. “Madge says he likes me."

 

"And you don't feel the same way?" he asks cautiously, like he's traversing a minefield. Poor Peeta. I can only imagine how awkward this is for him, discussing a teenager’s problems. “Or are you uncertain?”

 

“I would never date him.” I look at Peeta as if he has three heads. “Not in a million years.”

 

His dimples appear. “You should tell him that,” he suggests. “Just be honest.”

 

“It’s not that easy.” I bite my fingernail. “I’m going to have to be around him now that Madge is dating Darius. Probably a lot.” I narrow my eyes in displeasure.

 

Peeta sits up on the couch, his legs planted firmly on the floor. “What?”

 

My eyes widen. “Uh. I mean- damn. No, _dang_.”

 

He waves his hand dismissively at my language. “Rewind for a second. Madge is _dating_ someone?” He points at himself before directing his finger toward a framed photo family photo on the wall. “ _My_ Madge. She has a boyfriend?”

 

I shift. “I don’t know if I would call him a boyfriend. Yet.” I feel like such a traitor. “But they’re definitely talking.”

 

“Talking,” he repeats gruffly. “I know what that means. I’m gonna kill this boy.” He squints at me. “What’s his name again?”

 

“Oh, no.” I laugh, shaking my head at his protectiveness. “I’m already in deep trouble. I thought you knew! Madge tells you everything-” I stop at the stricken expression on his face.

 

“She does,” Peeta says, his eyes turning sad. “At least, she did. I thought Madge knew she could tell me anything.”

 

“I’m sure she still thinks that,” I say, trying to be gentle.

 

“I’ve been inside my own head since” —Peeta looks at me sideways— “The _Incident_.” I like that he steals my words. “Is this my fault? Have I not been spending enough time with her?” He looks so worried that I want to hug him.  

 

“No!’ I exclaim, promptly lowering my voice. I can’t stand for him to question his parenting skills. “That’s not it at all. But talking to your dad about your love life isn’t at the top of any girl’s list.” _I guess_. _It’s not like I would know_.

 

Peeta nods slowly. “You’re probably right.”

 

He still seems so downtrodden that I decide to push him a bit. “Besides, do you really want to hear about how she kissed-”

 

“Katniss! _Stop_ ,” he practically shouts, covering his ears. “Okay, okay. You win.” He shakes his head. “How did you get to be so smart?”

 

I shrug and grab the remote. I start to channel surf, my nose wrinkling at the options. “Born cool.”

 

He settles back against the couch again and smiles a little. “My girl has a boyfriend,” Peeta says musingly. “I’m glad for her, really. He just better not break her heart,” he adds, his words grim.

 

“Like anyone would dare to cross you. You’re a regular superhero in this town now.”

 

“Right.” He makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. “Just call me Batman.”

 

A thought comes to me. “Will you do me a favor?” I ask delicately. “Can you just let Madge tell you...organically?”

 

Peeta looks at me skeptically. “You’re asking for me not to rat you out.”

 

“Basically.” I look at him hopefully. I don’t want to be on bad terms with my best friend. I dread the thought of losing her trust. “I’ll encourage her to tell you. Isn’t that better? She’s totally going to wonder how you knew, otherwise.”

 

He relents. “Fine,” he says, clearly reluctant. “I’d rather her come to me.”  

 

I pat his arm gratefully. “I’ll work on her soon.”

 

I stop on a cooking show and toss the remote between us. It’s a safe choice, and I know how much he loves these programs about competitive chefs.

 

“Hey, Peeta?” I clear my throat and meet his curious gaze. “I’ve told you this before, but— seriously. You’ve always been the best dad. Madge is so lucky to have you.”

 

His eyes glint even in the dim room. “Thanks, Katniss.” He sounds unbearably touched.

 

I nod and turn back to the television program, reaching for my bottle of water because my throat is mysteriously tight.

 

* * *

 

I startle awake, my heart thumping in my chest. I don’t think I had a nightmare, but my body is hot and sweaty, similar to when I wake up in bed after a terrible night of sleep. But instead of feeling as if I’m on the verge of a panic attack, I’m tense and strung as tight as a bowstring. An uncomfortable ache in my lower stomach makes me want to squirm.

 

I move to shift from my curled position on the couch and freeze. I look down at my thigh and the large, warm hand that covers it. My eyes fly to Peeta’s face, but he’s completely passed out, his face achingly peaceful.

 

_He doesn’t know_ , I think. _I should move. He’d be so mortified if he knew._

 

But I don’t move. I just lie there, propped on my side, soaking in the comfort his touch provides. I can barely breathe, fearing with every exhale that he’ll move his hand. His thumb shifts back and forth, the slow glide worsening the ache inside of me. I freeze when his eyelashes flutter lazily.  

 

He’s waking up.

 

I shut my eyes and lower my head, feigning sleep. I know exactly when Peeta realizes what he’s done. His hand tightens around my thigh and he gasps.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers so lightly that I almost don’t hear it.

 

His hand lingers for a moment and then it’s wrenched away, Peeta’s fingers leaving an invisible, burning mark on my skin. The couch squeaks and I know he’s gotten up. A blanket is tucked around me.

 

Footsteps pad away. A door opens and shuts.

 

He’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Shannon. All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> I'm peetaspenis on tumblr. Come say hi. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Nick 10:30 PM** : Hey

 

I cut my eyes toward my phone and huff. If there were a manual on how to un-attract teenage boys, I would do unspeakable things to buy it. I don’t know what I did in another life to deserve the attention of Nick Gloss.

 

**Me 10:31 PM** : I’m running out of minutes. I can’t talk. Sorry

**Nick 10:31 PM** : Minutes?? Dont u have a txt plan

**Me 10:32 PM** : Bye Nick.

**Nick 10:33 PM** : Can I call u sumtime

 

“Who are you texting over there?”

 

The small smirk edging around Madge’s lips is deeply suggestive, as if she already knows exactly why I’m scowling down at my phone.

 

I raise my head from my pillow and show her my texts, grimacing when her eyes widen.

 

“You little vixen!” Madge breaks into hysterical laughter, almost knocking her laptop off the bed. “You have such an admirer. Darius said you’re _all_ he’s talked about since last night. Nick even wanted to hang out with us at lunch today.” There’s an edgy undercurrent to her words that I choose to ignore, like she thinks she did me the greatest favor on earth by declining on my behalf.

 

“What the hell.” I sit up and glare at her, kicking out a foot and catching her in the ankle. “I don’t understand any of this.”

 

“Boys like a challenge.” Madge shrugs and closes her laptop. She turns to face me, and there’s this sparkle in her eye, like she’s loving the gossip. And it hurts a little, because she’s come alive since becoming close with Darius and meeting new friends. I get it-- now we have a social life to share with others, and it’s breathing a new sort of dynamic into our already solid friendship. But I can’t help but wish for the old, simpler times, when we could watch John Hughes movies or sit in silence, completely comfortable in our boring skin.

 

All good things must come to an end.

 

“I don’t want to be some boy’s _challenge_.” I frown in disgust, yanking on my messy braid. “Maybe if he actually liked me, I’d find him to be...slightly more tolerable.” _Being generous here._ “But I know for a fact that he’s only interested in the drama from The Incident.”

 

Madge looks thoughtful. “I don’t know, Katniss. Nick used to watch you in gym class freshman year. Remember that?”

 

I stare at her. “Are you seriously still trying to push the Nick agenda on me?”

 

She flushes and traces the rosette pattern of her comforter. “No, I just- I’m _happy_.” A smile brightens her face before she makes eye contact with me again. “I want you to find someone, too. At the risk of sounding like some matching-making grandma” -she at least manages to look a little sheepish at this- “aren’t you a _tiny_ bit interested in meeting a boy? It doesn’t have to be Nick.”

 

“I don’t want a boy. I want a man.” The words escape before I really think about what I’m saying. Why in the world would I say that, of all things? What do I know about men? I don’t even know any.

 

_Except one._

 

Madge raises both eyebrows, her expression quizzical and disbelieving. “A _man_? You’ve never even had a real boyfriend and you want to jump ahead to grown men?”

 

I try not to be insulted by her condescending tone, but it’s hard not to snap back with an incendiary comment of my own. 

 

“I just meant someone more mature. The guys our age are...“ I stop at the offended look that’s spreading across her face. “Not Darius, of course! He’s great,” I tack on, but it sounds lame even to my own ears.

 

“Hmm,” Madge hums, eyeing me before her attention is diverted to an incoming text.  “So a college guy, then?” she adds absently, her thumbs flying over her phone. “Maybe Darius knows someone from that baseball camp he goes to every summer.  I dunno. We’ll be graduating soon, so you’ll have plenty of _men_ to choose from next year.”

 

“Yeah.” I lie back down on the bed and cross my arms over my stomach, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

 

Right. I’m sure there will be plenty of perfect catches at the community college I’m going to attend in the fall. I sometimes think Madge willfully ignores the fact we’re going to be split up soon. She’ll be going to Georgetown University, and I’ll be here, working my way through two years of school and hoping I make enough to join her after knocking out the required courses for a cheaper price.

 

Madge looks at me like she’s reading my mind. “It’s not too late, you know. There are student loans you can take-”

 

“Drop it, Madge.” I soften my voice. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

 

“Not to me.” She puts her phone away and turns on her side, her mouth tilting down at the corners. “Katniss? I’m gonna miss the hell out of you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So.” Her face turns introspective. ”We should have as much fun as possible while we can,  right?”

 

I narrow my eyes. “I suppose.”

 

“Want to go to a movie tomorrow?” Madge asks with exaggerated innocence, batting her eyelashes at me.

 

I sigh and roll over on to my back. “Nick’s going to be there, isn’t he?” I ask, the words flat.

 

“It’s a group thing! I promise.”

 

I roll my head so my cheek hits the pillow. “Fine. But I’m not going to Sae’s before _or_ after.”

 

“Deal.” The little con artist squeezes my hand and turns off the lamp beside the bed, signifying she’s ready to go to sleep.

 

I blink into the darkness, counting down the minutes until I can sneak downstairs and hang out with Peeta. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Peeta isn’t there.

 

I stand in the basement, bewildered, as if the longer I wait, the greater the chance of him appearing will be. I knew the entire trek down stairs that this would be a possibility, but actually being confronted with his absence smacks too much of abandonment.

 

“God,” I say into the empty room.

 

I stare accusingly at the television, the inanimate piece of shit that started all of this and constantly threatens to take away my one source of comfort during this rough time period.

 

If it hadn’t been for that stupid low budget porn, Peeta wouldn’t have thought twice about waking up with his hand on my leg. It was an accident, an involuntary thing that happened while asleep. And suddenly, I’m mad. I’m frustrated that we might have to go through this again.

 

I flip off the basement light and walk on autopilot, my thoughts running ahead of me at a disastrous speed. I’m almost to the stairs when I notice that down the hall the light to Peeta’s office is on. It’s just a thin, glowing slat beneath the door, and it’s beckoning me.

 

Before I overthink it, I’m moving toward the slice of light like a moth to a flame. I hesitate before turning the knob, but then I fully commit and walk inside.

 

I fully expected him to be working on his computer, maybe grading assignments or designing a logo for this cool start-up company that hired him to do freelance work. Instead, he’s painting, his back to me as he brushes furious strokes over a canvas, his hair standing up straight up as if he’s been yanking on it all night. There are even a few flecks of paint there, little spots of brightness scattered amongst the light strands.

 

I clear my throat, anxiety twisting my stomach into knotty, churning snakes. It’s too late to back away from the room, but I don’t want to silently stand here like a creeper, either.

 

He whirls around, his paintbrush splattering small, colorful dashes on a plastic tarp covering the floor. Peeta blinks dreamily, almost as if he doesn’t recognize me.

 

“Katniss,” he finally says, his voice hoarse. “Hey- _hi_.” He glances around the room, an absent expression on his face.  “What time is it?”

 

“Like- midnight.”

 

“Oh.” He looks surprised at this. “I’ve been working a long time.”

 

“Yeah, I-” I scratch the back of my neck and shift on my feet. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work. I mean, your art. I went downstairs, and…”

 

“I wasn’t there,” Peeta finishes, his blue eyes apologetic. He places his paintbrush on an easel and wipes his hand on his jeans. “I’m sorry, Katniss. I should have texted you, somehow let you know that I wasn’t coming. I got caught up inside my head and time slipped past me.”

 

“I thought you were avoiding me,” I say, because of course I can’t keep my fucking mouth shut. Of course I have to say every little thought in my head when I’m around Madge’s dad even though it’s like pulling  teeth for everyone else who tries to suffer through a conversation with me.

 

He winces, and his lips draw to the right, like he might be biting the inside of his mouth.

 

A beat passes.

 

“You were awake last night, weren’t you?” Peeta asks, rubbing his face. The words are soft and careful, like he’s traversing a minefield.

 

There’s a streak of orange paint blazing across his cheek, and I quell the insane urge to lick my thumb and scrub off the mark. I wonder briefly what his five o’clock shadow would feel like beneath my fingertips before mentally slapping myself back to reality.

 

_No, no,_ hell _no._ _Do not go there._

 

_“_ Katniss?”

 

I debate whether or not to lie to him, then promptly toss that idea straight into the trash. I don’t want to lie to Peeta.

 

“Yeah, I- yes.” I sit down on Peeta’s desk chair as he leans against the wall, and it’s as if we have subconsciously drawn back to our individual corners, two wary prize fighters with everything to lose. I don’t like the distance between us, mentally or physically. “But it’s not a big deal.”

 

“I don’t think…Katniss, it’s just not a good idea right now. I really don’t think it is.” Peeta exhales as if the words pain him, his eyes begging me to understand. And I want to, because he looks beyondtired and unhealthily overdrawn, and I would rather jump off a bridge than contribute to the bags of burden under his eyes.

 

But I’m not going down without a fight. I need this friendship.

 

I think we need each other.

 

“You said it would be okay. You said you were my friend,” I say, more accusingly than I’d like.

 

“You  are. I _am_.” Peeta straightens, like he’s going to cross the room to me, but then visibly stops himself. He throws his shoulders back and breathes out of his nose.

 

“Peeta. Please,” I plead, dignity gone. I lean forward in the chair and clasp my hands together, almost in prayer. “Don’t cut me out over something stupid. It’s not like anything happened.”

 

“But what if it did?” he bites out, and then immediately looks as if he wants to cut his tongue out of his mouth. “That’s not-” He sighs, deflating. “My nightmares are volatile. Sometimes they’re so real, I wake up feeling like I’m someone else. You’re so trusting-” He shakes his head. “Last night only compounded my fears. I can’t control myself in my sleep.”

 

“God, Peeta. You’re not going to have sex with me in your _sleep_ ,” I say with desperate bluntness. The color drains from Peeta’s cheeks, and when I stand up and walk toward him, he forcibly flinches away. I’ll find time to be wounded over that later. “That’s ridiculous; plus, you’d have to be attracted to me for that.”

 

An intense, hunted look flashes across his face, and then it’s gone.

 

“We can’t talk about this,” he says tiredly, holding up his hands. “Seriously, Katniss. This is- I just can’t do this tonight.  I need to be an adult. You need to be a kid- a young adult,” he amends at the look on my face. “And I...I think we need to establish some boundaries between us.”

 

“Peeta-”

 

“Not right now, Katniss. Please.”

 

And then he turns his back on me, his movements stiff as he picks up his paintbrush and a palette he’d placed on a squat wooden stool.

 

_He turned his back on me_.

 

I wait for a disbelief-fueled moment, willing him to turn around and look at me, to acknowledge me again. When he doesn’t, I turn away and stalk quietly up the stairs, walking past Madge’s room to sleep in the guest bedroom. I have a feeling tonight will be a bad one, the tension that Peeta had formerly abated now swelling inside of me and no doubt ready to manifest into a horrible nightmare of epic proportions.

 

* * *

 

Madge keeps casting me wary glances over her mocha latte, and I don’t blame her. I’ve been terminally grumpy since crawling out of bed this morning. Utter exhaustion lines every bone of my body, and whatever space is left is filled with mixed emotions of fear, anxiety and betrayal. 

 

I dreamt of dead bodies hanging from trees and worms sliding over my skin, and every time I tried to wake up, it was as if I entered a new nightmare again, seamlessly sliding from one into another.

 

“Maybe you should stay home from school,” Madge suggests, her finger tracing a path around the ridge of her mug. “You look a little...wrung out.” She kindly doesn’t point out that I look like a cast member from that zombie show she likes, but I can tell from her expression that she’s making the comparison in her mind.

 

“Shut up and pass me food,” I grumble, laying my head on the kitchen table.

 

“Dad really outdid himself.” She slides a banana nut muffin my way, a personal favorite of mine. I hold it in my hand and remember how Peeta told me the secret is to use overly ripe bananas. I frown down at the offending muffin before tearing into it with a ferocious bite. “He must have been up half the night.” She jerks a thumb toward the counter, and I see no fewer than three baskets overflowing with baked goods.

 

My stomach drops, because I’ve spent hours interchangeably furious and depressed, selfishly refusing to consider how Peeta might have handled the aftermath of last night’s conversation. From the sheer amount of food lining the counter, I’d say he got maybe an hour of sleep, tops. I imagine Peeta taking the train into work, and I wonder if he napped like we did on the way to the museum...no. No.

 

Not going there.

 

I take another vicious bite from the muffin. “Let’s go,”  I say, standing from the table and grabbing my bag.

 

Madge dutifully stands. “You sure?” She eyes me. “I’m sure no one is going to think twice if you stay. Your mom would probably call in…”

 

“Madge.”

 

“Okay, okay.” She holds up her hand, acquiescing. “I am but your humble driver.”

 

My mouth lifts at this. “Thanks...and-” I inhale. “I’m sorry that I’m such an asshole this morning.”

 

“I’m used to it.” She lifts a shoulder and sticks her tongue out at me.  “Besides, you can make it up to me by having lunch with Darius and his friends today.”

 

I give her a light shove, and we tease each other all the way out the door.

 

Life sucks a little less when you have a best friend, and even though I’m so tired I feel as if I could pass out in the driveway as we walk to the car, I’m deeply thankful I have Madge to support me.

 

But I can’t help but wish I had her dad, too.

 

* * *

 

“Everdeen!” Nick says, slowly driving his car beside me as I walk down the street. “Get in here, girl. I’ll give you a ride.”

 

I tilt my head back and silently curse at the sky. To be fair, Madge would have been more than happy to give me a ride after Model UN, but when she let it slip that Darius wanted to meet up with her later, I made the decision not to wait. She tried to argue with me, but when I said I needed time to myself, she eventually left me alone. I know the Alone-Time card only has a few more uses left, and I’m going to miss it when it’s gone.

 

_"At least come to my house.” She frowned, nudging Darius when he poked her in the side at lunch._

 

_"Nah." I shift in discomfort, self-conscious of the curious looks coming my way. The occupants of the lunch table were obviously interested in our conversation._

 

_Cashmere blinked at me, her blood-red lips twisted at the sides. "You don't have a car?"_

 

_"No."_

 

_"That must suck," Lavinia said with a smirk, gnawing on a carrot.  "I don't know how I'd live without mine."_

 

_“Yeah, I consider it a real tragedy.”_

 

_Madge gave me a look under her eyelashes, so I pressed my lips together and stared down at my tater tots. I wasn’t going to cater to these assholes, but I didn’t want to embarrass her, either._

 

_"I can take you," Nick said, his eyes meeting mine. The table grew silent. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know. If you need a way home."_

 

_All eyes turned to me._

 

_"Ah. Thanks but- no, I got it. I need the exercise." I laughed lamely and patted my bony ribs._

 

_Cashmere glared at me, and Madge hastily changed the subject, asking how everyone had done on our Econ quiz._

 

"Katniss?" Nick asks again, and I finally stop in my tracks. He idles beside the sidewalk, tapping the steering wheel. "C'mon." He flashes me his most winning, "popular guy" smile. "You don't really want to walk, do you?"

 

"Au contraire. I love walking."

 

He sticks his head out of the window and gives a long, deliberate look toward the heavy clouds above. "Seems like rain today," he observes mildly, the words an exaggerated, obnoxious drawl.

 

I exhale and debate the merits of walking in a rainstorm versus being trapped in Nick Gloss' Audi for the next fifteen minutes or so.

 

"All right." I walk around the side of his car and open the door. I barely have it closed before he peels off, and I frown at him. “ I don’t need that leg or anything.”

 

"My bad," he says sheepishly. Nick's hands tighten around the steering wheel, and then he laughs to himself. "God, Katniss. You're kinda intimidating, you know?"

 

I blink. That's exactly what Madge had said-- that he thought me to be _intimidating_ , but even now I find it hard to believe, despite hearing it straight from the horse's mouth. It always seemed like one of those convenient kind of excuses people use when they don't really want to try to get to know someone, and would rather take the easy way out instead.

 

"Oh." I struggle for a stronger reply, my hands fiddling in my lap. "I'm really not."

 

"So you just hate me, then?"

 

I whip my head toward him, surprised at his blunt question. "Um." I touch the scar on my neck and sigh. "No. I don't hate you, Nick."

 

Nick beams, and I'm already regretting my answer when he pats me on the thigh. I angle my legs away and give him a dirty look.

 

"So, where am I heading?" he asks, sliding on designer sunglasses I know cost more than my entire wardrobe. "Just realized I have no idea where you live."

 

"But we've been best friends since kindergarten," I reply with mock sweetness, following the trail of a raindrop down the window with my fingertip. I leave behind a smudge on the pristine glass and surreptitiously rub at it with the sleeve of my shirt. "Why wouldn't you?"

 

He _tsks_ at my sarcasm. "You're not the easiest person to get to know, Katniss. Even before the shooting." I flinch at this. _The shooting_. That's what outsiders call it? I've been referring to it as The Incident in my mind for so long now that the harsh reality of Nick's words sends me reeling. He's oblivious to my inner turmoil, turning when I silently point at the next intersection. "You and Madge were always in your own world. Kinda snotty."

 

"Snotty?" I rear back, my fingers tightening around my knee. This guy is unbelievable. " _Me_? That's the pot calling the kettle black." 

 

Nick chuckles at my offended expression. "Yeah, you guys always acted better than anyone else. Too good to party. But this year Madge has really come out of her shell. I think Darius is good for her." He slides a look at me. "Even if you don't like our crowd."

 

"Oh, please. As if you care about Madge or her _shell_."

 

"Madge is a cool girl." He goes heavy on the gas pedal when we reach the stretch of highway leading to my house, and I find myself pushing back into the seat, as if it will help slow down the car hurtling down the rainy road. "But, you're right. I'm more interested in her friend," he adds slyly.

 

I narrow my eyes. "Stop hitting on me, " I command him, crossing my arms. If he's going to be blunt, I will be, too.

 

"Give me a chance," he counters, flipping on the windshield wipers. He takes off his sunglasses and carelessly tosses them onto the dashboard. I watch as the incoming rain splatters against the glass, and I wish to be anywhere but in this car. "I'm a good guy. I can treat you right-" Nick stops and gives me a confused glance when I signal for him to slow down in front of my house. He finally turns in at my driveway when I wave at him, the gesture turning more impatient with every second that he hesitates.

 

“Uh. Here?”

 

My fingers curl into a fist in my lap. “Yeah.”

 

Nick puts the car in park, his mouth pressed in a thin line. We sit in silence.

 

"You can say it." I turn and stare at his profile, hating the judgement I see there.

 

He lets out a low whistle and swings his head toward me, his green eyes widening in disbelief.

 

"You...live here?"

 

"Yeah, Nick." I grab my bag, a slow burn of embarrassment working its way up my spine. I've never been ashamed of my house, my family, or my background, but the way he's looking at me right now is making me feel lower than dirt. "Still want to 'get to know me'?" I flash him an insincere grin and hop out of the car. I don't slam the door behind me, because I wasn't born in a barn and I respect other people's things.

 

But mentally, I was slamming the door.

 

"Hey!" he calls behind me. I'm almost to the front door when he grabs my shoulder. I jerk away and give him my best "touch me and die" look. He flushes, the dull red color slowly rising from the collar of his Henley to crawl up his tan neck. "I'm sorry, all right? I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. Your house- it's fine." He eyes it doubtfully, like it might come crashing down around our ears as we speak. "I was thrown off, is all."

 

I bark out a laugh, whirling to face him fully. I push a wet strand of hair away from my cheek and point at him.

 

"News flash- I don't care what you think! And I definitely don't need or want your approval." I turn away and struggle to shove my key into the lock. "Thanks for the ride home."

 

I shut the door in his face. Then I go into my room, turn down the comforter and curl into a ball, because as much as I don't give a damn about Nick Gloss' opinion of my financial status, it hurts to be subjected to rejection twice in twenty-four hours.

 

* * *

 

A text tone wakes me up shortly after five. I blink sleepily at my phone, and then stiffen to complete awareness.

 

Peeta has sent me a text.

 

**Peeta 5:03 PM** : I don't want to use up your minutes but I just wanted to say...I'm sorry. Also there is homemade pizza here waiting for you.

 

**Peeta 5:03 PM** : Say the word and I'll come get you. I don't want you to be home by yourself right now.

 

My eyes are wide. Is this a dream? A quick glance confirms it is not. I don't hesitate to reply:

 

**Me 5:04 PM** : Okay.  Come get me

 

I quickly re-braid my hair and brush my teeth. I spend a few minutes frowning at my reflection before wandering onto the porch and waiting on a rocking chair that has seen better days. I fiddle with my phone and read the texts I missed from Madge, gushing about Darius and wishing that I was going to Sae’s with them.

 

Peeta's car pulls into the driveway and I try not to fly off the porch, instead forcing myself to walk at a leisurely pace despite the persistent drops of rain falling from the sky.

 

"You need an umbrella," he tells me as soon as I shut the door.

 

"Ugh. That’s the most annoying invention ever." I smile at him appreciatively when he turns up the heat, a blast of warmth soothing my chilly skin. "Then I'd just be dragging in a soaked bundle of material that drips all over your seat."

 

"So it's better to have you dripping wet all over my seat?" he asks with a chuckle. Then we freeze.

 

And start to laugh.

 

"God," he finally says after we've calmed down. "That sounded terrible."

 

"The worst," I agree, smiling hard. "I'm glad we can laugh at it, though." I decide to go for it. "After last night, I thought you'd throw yourself out the window after saying something like that to me."

 

He sighs and looks at me, regret in his eyes. "Can I plead temporary insanity? I treated you terribly."

 

"I understand." I touch his hand and quickly pull away. "This is a weird situation. I get it. I just need you to know that I'm not sitting over here thinking you're some kind of creep."

 

Peeta grimaces, his jaw flexing. "That's exactly what I’m worried about."

 

I shake my head. “That will never happen, Peeta.” I cut my eyes toward him, and I notice that he looks more haggard than usual. “What’s wrong?”

 

“What do you mean?” He does this thing that tells me he’s holding back, where his fingers flex outward to stiff points before curling back around the steering wheel. One time, he surprised Madge and I by driving us to our favorite theme park a few hours away, and no matter how much begging we did, he refused to tell us where we were going. He just smiled and flexed his fingers, teasing us the whole way to Kings Dominion.

 

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I can tell something is up.”

 

Peeta tips his chin. “Has your mom called you?”

 

My eyebrows furrow together. “No?” My reply is more of a question than a definitive answer, and I stare down at my phone. “I don’t think so. Sometimes my calls don’t go through if I’m out of range, but I don’t have any voicemails.”

 

“She may not have wanted to leave this on a voicemail,” he says, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

 

“What?” My heart is pounding and a sharp chill runs through me at the tone of his voice. “What is it?”

 

“I got a call from the police department.” He looks at me askance before pulling his gaze back to the road. “They want me - _us-_ to come in and give an additional statement.”

 

I exhale. “That’s it?” My hand creeps to my neck, and I unconsciously trace my scar.

 

“No,” he admits with grim reluctance. “They want us to help identify the man who got away. The shooter.”

 

I practically disappear into the seat. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and I stare at him in shock. “What? No. We didn’t even see him. They had masks!”

 

“I know,” he says. “Katniss-- it’s okay.” I must look really bad, because Peeta keeps giving me fast, concerned glances. “I’m going to pull over, all right?”

 

“Okay,” I say with difficulty, taking in deep, bracing of breaths of air. I’m silent as we pull over into an empty parking lot that once was a used car dealership, and I stare at the faded sign that still boasts _The Best Prices in Twelve Acre!_

 

“Look at me,” he says, turning to me. He takes one of my hands and squeezes, and my eyes fly to his calm, soothing ones. “If you don’t want to do this right now, you don’t have to, okay? Let’s get that straight right now.”

 

“Okay,” I say dumbly. “But, will he go to jail?” My voice is high and reedy and weak. “If I don’t?”

 

“There are about a dozen other witnesses besides us.” I’m so glad he didn’t call us victims. Peeta continues, “Their statements combined with the security cameras are plenty. Also, his accomplices rolled over on him and sold him out. Probably because he...he was the one with the gun.” His fingers grow tighter around mine. “They’ll get off easier than _him_.”      

 

“Are you going to go to the station?” I ask, staring out the window over his shoulder. The rain is slowly coming to a stop, only a small drizzle remaining from the earlier storm.

 

He nods, his expression careful. “Yes. But Katniss, that’s me. I’m an adult, and-”

 

“I’m an adult, too.”

 

His expression grows sharp with something like awareness  and then softens again in quick succession. “Yes, you are. That’s part of why I wanted to tell you this before a phone call threw you off, or even worse, a knock on the door.” I raise my eyebrows and he leans back against the door. “You’re eighteen now, so the department doesn’t have to go through your mother anymore. They might have contacted her today as a courtesy since... _The Incident_ happened when you were seventeen, but eventually they’ll make their way to you if your mother doesn’t let them know something one way or the other.”

 

I’m silent for a moment.

 

“You’ll go with me?” I ask in a small voice.

 

“I’ll be with you the _whole_ time. I promise.”

 

“So how will it work?” He goes stock-still, and it’s then that I notice that I’ve been unconsciously playing with his hand. I run the pads of my fingers over the ridged lines of his knuckles. I brush the cool band of gold around his ring finger and pause. I meet his eyes and take in the press of lips, as if he’s struggling to hold back a comment, and I let his hand go. 

 

He clears his throat. “From what they told me, they’ll want us to listen to his voice and give a statement on that. They might have asked him to repeat things that he’s said to us…” He falters at my horrified expression. “We won’t see him, Katniss. It’s a voice recording.”

 

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay.” I open my eyes again. “But will we have to testify? Later?” As glad as I am that the shooter was caught, another part of me was dreading the thought of a trial. His accomplices hadn’t been able to flee the scene and were already in the middle of plea bargains, admitting guilt for lower sentences.

 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe. Most likely, unless he pleads guilty. But that won’t be for some time. These things...justice is a slow process.”

 

We’re quiet for a few minutes, but it’s not uncomfortable. Peeta seems to know that I need time to process what I’ve heard, and is content to wait.

 

“Are you going today?” I finally ask.

 

He checks his watch. “Yes.” He peers over at me, a sheepish apology written all over his face. “I was planning on it.”

 

“Hey!” My eyes widen. “You were planning on me going with you this whole time,” I accuse him, the slight smile on my lips easing the tension from his face. “This was all a ruse.” A thought occurs to me. “What about my homemade pizza? Everything I know is a lie.”

 

“There is indeed a pizza, ready to go into the oven. And I _hoped_ you would go with me,” he corrects me, reaching out and tugging on my braid. “I think this could help us. With our…” His hand slides away from my hair, and I catch my breath when he touches my scar with the tip of his warm finger. “Our problem.”

 

“Our nightmares,” I clarify.

 

“Yes.” Peeta gives me a sharp look, pulling his hand away and cranking the car. “That,” he says, glancing out the window. “Maybe it will give us closure.”

 

We drive toward the station in quiet contemplation, and it’s not until we’re pulling into a parking spot that I think to ask him about his wife.

 

“Is Mrs. Mellark coming?” I ask.

 

He laughs, but it’s a humorless sound. “No.” He turns the car off. “I think”-- Peeta shakes his head, almost talking to himself-- “I think she might have forgotten about The Incident.” He quirks a smile my way, and I’m amazed that it isn’t laced with more bitterness than it is. “I told her where I was going, and she stared at me like I was crazy. Even after I explained, she just nodded and told me to have a good time.”

 

“My mom hasn’t even called me,” I tell him, matter-of-fact. It’s like we’re playing a screwed up game of ‘Whose Loved One Cares the Least.’ “Guess we’re lone-wolfing this thing.”

 

He howls softly, stuffing the keys into his pocket and opening the car door. I do the same, a laugh bubbling forth and competing with my wolf imitation.

 

“You’re a weirdo.” I tilt my head and eye him with a grave expression. “You know that, right?”

 

Peeta nods. “This is true,” he says, the words lofty and light.

 

He makes a move, like he’s going to hold his hand out to me, but then his arm falls back to his side in an awkward motion. He offers his elbow to me instead, and I take it without comment. I notice his limp is a little better, but still more pronounced than I’d like. I touch my neck and think about the souvenirs we were both left with, both the internal and the external, and I hope that the step we’re about to take will help to lessen some of the mental anguish from The Incident.

 

“Hey, Peeta?” I say as we approach the doors.

 

“Yes, Katniss?”

 

“Thanks for coming to get me today.” I look up at him, taking in his cautious expression. “Even if it’s only because of _this_ ,” I add hastily, gesturing to the building we’ve paused in front of.

 

“It wasn’t just because of...this,” Peeta says, walking us forward and reaching for the door with the arm that isn’t locked with mine. My heart jumps. And then he smiles down at me, his eyes a warm blue. “I couldn’t leave a friend behind.”

 

“What about your _boundaries_?” I can’t resist asking, a part of me still smarting from last night’s conversation.

 

Peeta leans against me for a brief moment before turning the doorknob. “It’s hard to keep those when I’m around you,” he says, and then we walk inside.

 

* * *

 

Almost two hours later, we’re in the car again and driving back to his house. My hands are shaking and I feel like I need a drink, or a cigarette, or some sort of vice that will make me feel less like jumping out of my skin.

 

Peeta gives me a reassuring smile, but if his hands weren’t wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, they would be shaking. I know this because the keys rattled violently in his fingers on our way to the car, and it took him two tries to crank the car.

 

“Are you okay?” I ask him, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth.

 

We come to a pause at a stoplight, and he drops his head back with a thump against the headrest. “I should be asking you that.”

 

“Why? Because you’re the _adult_?”

 

“No,” he says, looking at me with a bit of reproach in his eyes. And though I feel as if I’m within my rights to make that jab, I immediately feel spiteful and immature and nothing like the fellow adult I’ve claimed to be. He doesn’t deserve my stress-induced snarkiness right now. “Because of what...he said.”

 

I swallow, and look away. The recording of Cato Baxter, once known as _Heavy Coat,_ wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be.

 

It was worse.

 

Not only was it clear that he had not a shred of remorse for his actions, but he was smug, and cruel, and he remembered me by name. His defense wasn’t that he was innocent, but that he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger. Cato’s case would be going to trial with the insistence that he hadn’t killed Thresh, and while I don’t regret identifying his voice and giving a statement that would hopefully help put him away for life, I also know the way my name slid from his lips in a familiar, cold drawl as he went over the events of that night would be a starring feature in my nightmares.

 

“I’ll be okay.” I run a hand up and down my braid, my fingers reflexively dipping into the woven indentations. “It was...I didn’t know what to expect. It’s a lot to take in.”

 

“I know. But, Katniss? You did really good back there.” Peeta’s hand drops from the steering wheel and hovers in the air for a moment. “I’m proud of you.”

 

“I’m proud of you, too,” I tell him. A smile flickers on his lips for a moment before they smooth back out into a distracted, disquieted line. “I’m glad I have you, you know? That we did this together.”

 

I watch as his fingers flex once, twice, before reaching for mine. My hand fits into his immediately, grateful to have a home there. We don’t speak of the connection, but I hold on tight and dread the moment we have to let go.

 

But we do, because when we pull into the driveway Madge is waiting on the porch, her face twisted with worry. Peeta had called and given her a brief explanation of why we’d be late coming home, and from the way she clung to us after we arrived and asked questions in a voice that verged on a sob, I knew I was right to keep some of the more hellish details of my anxiety away from her. I didn’t want the sins of The Incident to touch my best friend, not after she came a hair’s breadth away from losing her father that day.

 

Even Mrs. Mellark appeared restless and moved. I was surprised when she came downstairs to eat pizza with us, and Madge exchanged a silent look with me when she took Peeta’s hand in a show of comfort.

 

“Do you still want to go to the movies tonight?” Madge asks me once a silence has fallen over the kitchen table. I finish chewing a bite of pizza, using the time to figure out a way to say no. I really don’t feel up to it, but one look at Madge’s resigned face is enough for me to put on my big girl panties for the night. “We don’t have to,” she adds. “I just need to text the guys and let them know either way.”

 

“Sure,” I say, wiping my mouth. So much for her promise that it’d be a group thing. This sounds suspiciously like a double date with “the guys,” but I put on a game face. “What time?”

 

“Um. Now,” she says, cringing as she checks her phone. “We’re supposed to meet Darius and Nick in thirty minutes.”

 

Peeta looks up, his expression wary. “And who are these boys?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already have the scoop from me.

 

Madge rolls her eyes. “They’re just friends, Dad.” 

 

He narrows his eyes in return, and I silently hope that he doesn’t reveal the fact that I told him that she’s basically dating Darius.

 

“Oh, let the kids have their fun,” Mrs. Mellark says, her cheeks flushed. “We can have a date night of our own.” She makes a face at Peeta that is a tad too coy and takes a sip of wine, and the three pieces of pizza in my stomach threaten to make a reappearance. 

 

“We haven’t had a date night in years,” Peeta tells her, but his voice and expression is so unreadable that I can’t tell if he thinks it’s a good or bad idea.

 

It is _maddening_.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Madge says, clearly miffed. She gives me a “ _my mom is a crackhead_ ” look. “We’re gonna go get ready now. You guys have fun on your date night.” She raises an eyebrow at her dad, who purses his lips at her in response.

 

Peeta doesn’t look at me at all.

 

“Yeah,” I mutter, standing and following Madge out of the room. “Have fun.”

 

* * *

 

“So, be honest.” Madge nudges me with her elbow as we walk down the sidewalk. We had to park a few blocks away from the theater since their building is located downtown with only a small parking lot with limited spaces, but the walk is brisk and serves to help clear my mind from morose thoughts. “Was today fucking terrible?”

 

“It was pretty traumatizing,” I admit. “But I think it was good for us.”

 

She gives me a strange look.

 

“What?” I ask, self-conscious.

 

“Nothing...it’s just kinda weird, I guess.” She continues when I tilt my head, “You and my dad are basically a team now. And it feels- I dunno. Like I’m a little on the outside looking in.”

 

“Oh.” I feel flustered and flip up the collar of my coat. “No, it’s not...he just understands, you know?”

 

“I get it,” she assures me. “I’m glad you have each other.” Her face brightens, and her hand lifts in a wave as we approach the crowded sidewalk of the theater. “Hey, babe!” She speeds up and wraps an arm around Darius’ waist, her face lifting up toward his to receive a kiss. 

 

_Babe_? I try not to make a face at my best friend’s term of endearment. Nick smirks over at me, and I realize I must not have done too great of a job.

 

“Hey.” He lifts his chin in greeting. “Where’s my kiss, _babe_?”

 

“I’ll kill you,” I say, sweet as pie.

 

Nick throws his head back with a laugh and wraps his arm around me, and no amount of wiggling can remove its heavy weight from my shoulders as he steers us toward the ticket window.

 

We argue when he pays for my ticket, we argue when he pays for my upsized, expensive soda and a large popcorn drenched in butter, and by the time we’re all sitting down in the back row of the newest action movie, I think Madge and Darius are regretting inviting us at all.

 

“Do we need to sit between you guys?” Darius asks, only looking like he’s half-joking when he leans around Madge to peer at us, his rust-colored eyebrows furrowing together. She giggles and presses a shoulder into his, capturing his attention again.

 

“Yes,” I tell him. I half-rise from my position at the end of the aisle, but Nick grabs my arm and gently but firmly pulls me back down beside him.

 

“Chill, Everdeen,” he says, sounding condescending. He catches my eye and tilts his head toward our friends, who are in their own little world as they talk together in low, intimate tones. “Let them do their thing.”

 

I exhale. He’s right. I can sit here in the dark for the next two hours if it means I’m supporting my friend.

 

“All right.”

 

“Hey,” he says, and I raise an eyebrow at his unusually serious tone. “I want to…” He clears his throat and leans in closer. “I just want to apologize for earlier. I was a dick.”

 

“Oh. Uh- it’s cool.” I twist in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Damn, why couldn’t he just carry on being a one-dimensional asshole? I don’t want to deal with a contrite Nick Gloss, especially when he’s looking at me with those wide, sincere eyes. “Really,” I insist, looking away. “It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not. I’m not like that, okay?”

 

“Okay,” I repeat dutifully.

 

“I don’t care if you don't have money,” he says, his words earnest. “Some of my best friends are dirt poor. And at least you don’t live in a trailer, right?”

 

I make an annoyed noise and lean back in the chair. “Right. I mean, that’s worse than being homeless.”

 

He catches my sarcasm. “No, that’s not- I just meant-”

 

I let him off the hook. “I get it. Let’s move on.”

 

The lights dim around us and the room slowly turns to black, and I think we’re both relieved to not have to talk anymore. I settle into my seat and spend the next hour trying to dodge his hand as we both plunder the popcorn bucket with buttery fingers. I warm to him a bit when he pours a bag of M&Ms straight into the bucket and mixes it with the popcorn.

 

“Nice.” When I turn my head to whisper to Nick, I look over his shoulder and see Madge and Darius practically in each other’s laps, their hands in very suspicious locations. At some point during the movie they must have moved a few seats down from us, a gesture for which I should feel gratitude, but instead, a hollow bubble of resentment bubbles forth in its place.

 

“That could be you,” Nick says, nudging me.

 

I roll my eyes and turn away from him. “Ha ha. You-”

 

I jump when the sharp staccato of a machine gun echoes from the screen, and a bloody fight sequence plays out in front of me. I blink furiously, and sweat begins to bead on my forehead, the scene seeming neverending as the sounds of guns ring out continuously into the movie theater. My chest constricts, and it’s as if someone is shooting ice water directly into my veins. I clutch the arm rest when my heart starts to beat furiously, and I swallow thickly, wishing that it would just _stop,_ please just _stop-_

 

“Hey,” Nick is saying lowly. He touches my arm, and I get the impression he’s been trying to get my attention for a while. “Katniss? You all good?”

 

“Uh,” I stammer out, looking at him with blurry eyes. Madge and Darius are looking at me with concern now, and I don’t think I’m hallucinating the small bit of annoyance in Madge’s eyes as well. “Yeah, I...I need to go.”

 

“What?” Madge scoots down the chairs and back into her original seat. “We’re halfway through the movie. Are you sick?” There’s no mistaking the impatience in her voice.

 

“No- yes. Look, I’ll walk. But I have to go, okay?”

 

She eyes me while Nick and Darius glance away, uncomfortable.  “No,” she says slowly. For a moment, I think she’s going to offer to come with me. But then she continues, “Take the car.” She reaches down for her purse, presumably to dig for her keys.

 

I stand, my legs a little shaky. “I’m used to walking. I’m fine.”

 

Madge narrows her eyes, the flush of her cheeks visible even in the dim light. “Katniss-”

 

A machine gun _rat-a-tat-tats_ from the screen, and my legs feel so wobbly that I have to reach down and grasp the arm rest. “I’ll see you back at the house. Seriously, have a good time.”

 

I take off down the red carpet of the aisle, and when I finally clear the double doors and walk into the brightly colored lobby, I take a moment to lean against the wall for support. I press my clammy forehead into my arm and take deep breaths like my short-lived therapist had suggested. When I feel stable enough to walk, I make a beeline for the exit. The refreshing night air is just hitting my skin when I hear my name being called. I look over my shoulder and see my pseudo-date barreling my way. 

 

“Wait up,” Nick practically shouts. He pushes through a crowd of people, giving them dirty looks when they don’t automatically part for him like he’s Moses and they’re the Red Sea.

 

I let the door shut behind me but wait on the sidewalk, knowing if I try to walk away he’ll just catch up in moments. He’s captain of the track team for a reason. 

 

“Go back inside, Nick.” I wrap my arms around my waist and lean against the brick of the theater’s facade.

 

“No way in hell you’re gonna leave me alone with those two.” He jerks his thumb toward the entrance. “They’re probably creating Darius Junior as we speak.”

 

Maybe it’s selfish, but the fact that Madge went right back to making out with her boyfriend after I was clearly in distress hits me like a slap to the face.

 

“Do what you want,” I mutter, flipping the hood of my coat over my head. I push away from the wall. “I’m going home. Thanks for the ticket, and the popcorn.”

 

“Hold on,” he says, catching me by the elbow. I jerk away, and he holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m gonna drive you home.”

 

“No. Not necessary.”

 

“Katniss,” he says firmly, following beside me. “C’mon. It’s dark. It’s not safe. And it’s not like you haven’t driven with me before, right?”

 

“You’re relentless, you know that?” I tell him, turning my head to glare at him beneath my hood. “Like a dog with a bone.”

 

Nick smiles, like I paid him a grand compliment. “I know- there’s my car right over there.” He points across the street.

 

I pause when my phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my pocket.

 

**Madge 9:45 PM** : Going to nick and cashmeres after movie. Don’t wait up.

 

Then, like an afterthought:

 

**Madge 9:45 PM** : Hope u feel better.

 

I stop and stare down at my phone, and Nick stops with me.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

“Madge is going to your house,” I say dumbly, and it’s a testament to my surprise that I confided my thoughts to Nick fucking Gloss.

 

“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, my sister is kind of having a thing at our place tonight.” Nick looks down at me, an apology in his eyes. “I think Madge was gonna try to convince you to go after the movie, but-” He waves his arm in a wide-sweeping gesture, as if to encompass the entire, shitty night into one motion.

 

We start to walk again, and once we’re across the street and inside his car, he turns to me.

 

“You can still go, you know. To my house. You’re definitely invited.”

 

“No, thanks.” I continue when he looks a bit hurt, because he’s actually been pretty nice tonight, “It’s not you. I’m just really tired.”

 

He nods briefly and cranks the car, and it’s not until we’re a good ways down the street that he speaks again. “So, what was that?” He twists his lips at my deliberately blank look, his eyes knowing. “When you freaked out in the movies.”

 

“No offense, but I really don’t want to get into this with you.”

 

“Maybe you should get into it with someone,” Nick counters. “Because it seemed like a panic attack. Where am I going, by the way?”

 

“What the hell do you know about panic attacks?” I glare at him. “Turn left at the light.”

 

“Hey,” he finally snaps back. Nick flips his blinker with a harsh pop of his hand. “I know you think I’m some rich asshole with zero problems, but my life isn’t perfect. I know what stress is like. I have _pressure._ Expectations from my family, and my dad-” He takes a breath and slowly blinks. “I know about panic attacks,” he finishes, his voice quiet. Cowed like I’ve never heard him before.

 

“Sounds like you need to get into it with someone,” I say, my voice soft. I think that maybe I’ve misunderstood Nick Gloss. 

 

He huffs out a laugh, his cheeks red. “Maybe,” he admits. “You want to be my therapist, Everdeen? Clothes optional.” He gives me a mischievous glance, and instead of being annoyed, I laugh.

 

Nick looks pleased at my response. “I’m not a _total_ douche,” he says, tapping the steering wheel. “Right?”

 

“Not totally,” I say. “Make a right into this neighborhood coming up.”

 

“So, you think we can be friends?” he asks once I’ve directed him into the Mellarks’ driveway. I look at him in surprise. “I mean- if you want to bang, I’m down for that too.” He laughs at my exasperated groan. “I know you don’t like me like that,” Nick concedes. “But I think you’re cool, and we’re probably gonna be around each other a lot. And if you need to talk...I’m here. I’m a dumbass but I can listen, I think.” He sends me a hopeful smile.

 

“What happened to that kid?” I ask suddenly, unbuckling my seatbelt and turning to face him.

 

His smile drops. “Who?”

 

“In sixth grade. There was a boy- I think his name was Thom. You and your friends broke his arm.”

 

“Ah.” He covers his mouth for a second and looks out of the windshield into the distance. “Damn, Everdeen. That was years ago.”

 

I wait patiently.

 

“I don’t know what to say.” Nick inhales and runs a hand through his dark blond hair. “I was a jackass as a kid. I guess I’m only a little better now, but I’m trying. And for the record, I tried to talk to that guy after school, but he kicked me in the nuts.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “We beat the shit out of him after that,” he admits. “I feel bad about it.”

 

“Feeling bad about it doesn’t make it better.”

 

“I know.” He looks intensely remorseful, and then resigned. “You’re gonna always give me a hard time, aren’t you? You’re never gonna let me get away with shit.”

 

“Not a chance,” I tell him after a long moment of silence. “But we can be friends.”

 

He brightens. “Cool,” he says, nodding in satisfaction.

 

I open the car door, and pause. I think about his earlier confession. “Hey, Nick?” He looks up at me, his eyebrows raised. “I can listen, too.”

 

He gives me a half-smile, almost a smirk but more sincere.

 

I watch as he pulls out of the driveway, and I wave goodbye to my friend Nick. I wait a few seconds before pulling my phone out of my pocket-- no more texts from Madge. No calls from my Mom. Great. I jam the phone back in my pocket.

 

I drag my feet as I walk toward the porch. My eyes flit to the garage, where both cars are parked for the night. Must have been a stay-at-home date night for Madge’s parents. The thought makes me swallow back a bit of bile.

 

I retrieve the house key from its hidden spot on the porch and hesitate. I’m scared of what I might find inside, which is ridiculous because Peeta is _married_ , she is his _wife_ -

 

I shoot off a quick text.

 

**Katniss 10:00 PM** : You downstairs?

**Peeta 10:00 PM** : Kitchen.

**Peeta 10:01 PM** : Stop lurking and come inside.

 

I close my eyes, a brief smile twitching on my lips. I push open the front door.

 

* * *

 

"How was your date night?"

 

"How was yours?" he counters, the words drawing together into soft, sibilant consonants. Peeta's eyes are a little glossy, the blue irises shiny and slightly unfocused. His normally fair cheeks are rosy and flushed, and the faint but pungent smell I've come to associate with Madge's mom lingers in the air. "How was...Nick?"

 

"Really great, actually." The words come out crisply defiant, but then I soften. "I think he's going to become a good friend."

 

"Oh," he mutters, relaxing back into the couch. He’s been mostly quiet ever since we fixed glasses of ice water and came downstairs. "That's good. You need friends. Other friends than me."

 

I stiffen. "I thought we were past this."

 

He groans and runs his hands through his hair, ruffling the strands back and forth with a brisk motion that turns them into short, chaotic waves. "We were...we are," Peeta amends. He looks at me, the full force of his stare hitting me all at once. And he might be tipsy, or even a little drunk, but his attention is resting fully on me now. "I just don't know what I'm doing here. I'm fumbling through what to do, what's right."

 

"How many drinks did you have tonight?" I ask. I try to mitigate the judgmental curve of my words. "Just wondering."

 

"A few." Guilt creeps across his face, and maybe a bit of his own defiance as well. "I'm a forty-year-old man. I think I'm entitled to a few glasses of wine, especially after the day I've had."

 

I imagine him and Mrs. Mellark toasting to each other in bed while I was having a meltdown at the theater.

 

“Even when your wife is an alcoholic?" I snap. I immediately realize I've gone too far, and my mouth parts, a swift apology ready to spill from it.

 

"She has a problem," he says, the words rounded off with ice. "But I'm handling it, and your wise ass comments aren't helpful."

 

My lips press together and I turn my face away. Because he's right, and it's none of my business what he does on a date night with his wife.

 

"I'm sorry," I say, miserable. He doesn't reply, and I'm on the verge of going upstairs when he speaks again.

 

"Hey." I look at him, and Peeta sighs.  "It's okay. Neither of us are at our best tonight. It was a shitty day. I think we get a pass on being the worst versions of ourselves, don't you think?"

 

"Yeah," I tell him, leaning my head against the back of the couch. "I like that."

 

He grabs the remote and props his bare feet next to mine on the coffee table. His big toes are slightly longer than the second ones, and his toenails are neatly trimmed. I remember what I heard about in a magazine once, some fashion rag that Madge was obsessed with in ninth grade. "Your second toe is longer," Madge had pointed out, her eyes flicking up from the article. "It means you'll be the bossy one in a relationship." I briefly wonder about Mrs. Mellark's feet, a swift, crazy thought I immediately banish.

 

"You choose," Peeta is saying, handing me the remote. I take the peace offering, and we settle in for a night of television.

 

It's dark, and I'm trapped, and I can't breathe. The air is stagnant and there's fire licking up through the cracks of the rocky floor. Hands with bloody, clawed fingers shoot up from the fire and try to shove me through the spaces between the rocks, and I scream in pain and fear and panic.

 

_I'm in hell, I'm in hell, I'm in hell-_

 

"Katniss!"

 

_I'm in hell, oh god, I'm-_

 

"Katniss! Wake up, sweetheart. It's just a nightmare."

 

My eyes pop open and I sit up with a gasp. I look around with a frantic swing of my head and suck in great, gulping breaths.

 

A large, cool hand pushes hair back from my forehead, and I relax against the chest that is pressed beneath my cheek.

 

"It's okay," Peeta murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and confusion and a little fear of his own. "It was a nightmare, just a nightmare."

 

"It was real," I whisper, grasping onto his shirt with shaking hands. I turn and swing my leg over his lap because I need to be closer, I need to feel safe, and his strong arms around me are the only things tethering me to earth.  I tilt my head up to look at him, and he looks as shaken as I feel, his face damp with sweat and his eyes a bit wild. I wonder if he was trapped in a nightmare, too. "It was so real."

 

"Not real," he says, exhaustion coating his voice.

 

Peeta’s shoulders drop and his forehead touches mine, and I don't move away. He stills, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. Our damp skin presses together, and then our lips, and then our hands are in each other's hair and his tongue is touching mine and we're kissing, oh god we're kissing and it feels so good-

 

"Katniss," he says into my mouth, and then we're falling backward onto the couch, and my back digs into the hard shell of the remote when his body bears down on mine but I don't care.

 

All I care about is the way his lips seal to my mouth, and how his nose nuzzles mine with sweet, sleepy little bumps, and the way his hips thrust into me with lazy, undulating-

 

"No, no, no." Suddenly, the weight is gone, and Peeta is pressed against the far corner of the couch, his face pressed against his hands.

  
 “What have I done?" He lets out a long, shuddering breath. "Katniss, I'm _sorry_. God, you don't know how much."

 

I sit up and press a hand against my chest. "Peeta- no. Please, be anything but sorry. I can't handle _sorry._ "

 

“I knew better,” he growls, his elbows resting on his knees and his head hanging down in defeat. “I fucking _knew_.”

 

I stand up and he looks at me, actual fear in his expression as I walk toward him.

 

“ _Don’t_.”

 

I drop to my knees in front of him and stare into his wide, bloodshot eyes.

 

“Don’t touch me,” he warns me again, but I ignore him. Instead, I rest my head on his knee, and he groans.  “Jesus, this is hell.”

 

His hand slowly finds its way into my hair, and it's only then that I start to relax.

 

“This doesn’t feel wrong,” I say quietly, soaking in the comfort of his touch, no matter how reluctantly it’s given to me. "Tell me it's not just me."

 

“I’m married. You’re my daughter’s best friend. How many more reasons do I need to give that this is wrong?”

 

“And I’m your friend.” I turn my head and prop my chin on his knee. “You’re forgetting that part.”

 

He pulls me up by my shoulders, and I drop next to him on the couch. He doesn't move away from me, a promising sign.

 

“Katniss, we’ve officially crossed the line of friendship,” he says, his voice edgy. “I don’t know what the hell to do now.”

 

“Are you going to cut me off again?” I ask with a shaky exhale, not quite meeting his eyes.

 

“I want to...but I _can’t_ ,” Peeta finishes, frustrated. He runs a hand down his face and throws his head back. “I just can’t. I’m fucking weak.”

 

“We won’t do this again.” I take his hand, and tell him a lie. “We can control ourselves. It was just one slip-up.”

 

He squeezes my fingers, his grip hot and desperate. “That’s the thing, Katniss.” Peeta looks at me, his tormented eyes dropping to my lips before fluttering back up to meet mine. “I don’t _want_ to stop,” he says, low and defeated.

 

And then we lean forward.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to my beta Shannon! All mistakes are mine.
> 
> I'm peetaspenis on tumblr, come hang out. :)


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